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FISHING FOR "CAT" 



Page io8 



SATURDAY NIGHT 
SKETCHES 

STORIES OF OLD WIREGRASS GEORGIA 



BY 



J. L. HERRING 



Illustrated by Tom J. Nicholl 




BOSTON 

THE GORHAM PRESS 

MCMXVIII 



COPYBIGHT, 19 18, BY J. L. HeRRINO 



/- '' ' All Rights Reserved 



FEB IB 1918 



Made in the United States of America 



The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



'GI.A4 9 2:^84 



TO 
MY MOTHER 

WHO, LIKE THE WTREGRASS PIONEER, 
IS NOW A SACRED MEMORY 



THE REASON 

WHY THE BOOK?— To tell posterity some- 
thing of a people who have passed. To put in 
form more permanent than tradition something 
of those hardy pioneers who initiated the develop- 
ment of a wilderness into a land of fertility and 
plenty. Something of how they lived and loved 
and died; of the manners and customs of a people 
primitive, industrious, and God-fearing. Only a 
few are left who knew them — soon they, too, will 
be gone. It was not with an object so comprehen- 
sive that the sketches began. The first were writ- 
ten, as so many things are written, without objec- 
tive — with only the feeling of a story to tell, that 
newspaper men so well know — but as they grew 
in number and scope, the idea of publishing them 
in book form was first suggested by others who 
likewise knew the generation of whom they told, 
and these suggestions grew until a sense of duty 
to those who are gone as well as to the literature 
of a people culminated in the volume, which is 
submitted with temerity, because no one can 
realize more keenly than the author its short- 
comings. 

5 



6 The Reason 

WHY THE TITLE?— Saturday Night in the 
Southland is a semi-colon; a breathing-space be- 
tween the work of the week and the devotions of 
the morrow. A time for the young of merrymak- 
ing and social intercourse; for the old, of retro- 
spection. Therefore, in this halting between the 
going and the coming week, the mind of the man 
past life's meridian flits back to the days that are 
gone — to those who peopled them; and in 
memory, the dead live again. 

Tifton, Georgia, 
January i, igi8. 



CONTENTS 



Introduction 

Saturday Night . 

The Fire in Morris's Wagon Yard 

The Song of the Redeemed . 

When the Debaters Met 

Cane Grinding Time . 

"Running Up" the Bridegroom 

When We Put Jim Away . 

When Stegall Stopped Growing 

Fodder-pulh'ng Time . 

The Conversion . 

Uncle Wiley's Turkey Pen . 

Grandma's Spinning Wheel . 

Sunday at Obediah Gay's 

Carrying the Cotton to Market 

The Cape Jessamine 

A Candy-pulling in the Wiregrass 

Corn Liquor and Tutt's Pills 

A Wiregrass Easter 

An Old-time Wiregrass Frolic 

Cat-fishing in the Olden Time 

A County Site Removal Election 

"Helping" Jim Grind Cane . 

The Old Wash-hole . 

With the Rites of the Order . 

Cal Turner and the Black Runner 

"Big Court" in the Olden Time 

The Community Cotton Picking 

Cutting a Bee Tree 

Friday Afternoon in the Old-time School 



II 

19 
22 
27 
30 
35 
39 
44 
51 
58 
65 
69 
74 
80 

85 
90 
92 
96 
100 
103 
108 
112 
117 
123 
127 
132 
136 
142 
147 
152 



8 



«4 
Contents 



Corn Planting Time .... 
Town Ball on the Schoolhouse Yard . 
The Old Way of Shelling Peanuts 
At Old China Grove .... 
Sol Drawhorn and the Grey Lizard 
Sheep-shearing Time .... 
The Singing School .... 
Helping Aunt Mary Make Sausage 
A Deer Drive in the Old Days 
The Homefolks Dance .... 
The Revival's Close .... 
The Downfall of a Millionaire . 
Cane Chewing Time .... 
Carrying Cotton to George Spring's Gin 
Fourth of July in the Olden Time 
Helping Granny Make Soap 
An Old Time Fire-hunt 
The Sunday School Celebration . 
When the Wiregrass Was Ablaze . 
The Singing Play .... 
Three Watermelons an Unhandy Turn 
A House-raising and Home Building . 
A Nest of Squirrels .... 
An Old Time Circus Day . 
Going to Mill with Bud 
A Log-rollin', Quiltin', and Frolic 
The Union Sing ..... 
Saturday Night 



PAGE 
169 
183 

206 

217 
220 
226 
232 
236 
242 
247 
253 
257 
268 

279 
284 
291 
296 
301 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



PAaNG 
PAGE 



Fishing for "Cat" Frontispiece 

Grandma's Spinning Wheel 74 ^ 

The Fiddlers 104^ 

Town Ball 164 . 

The Baptism 178 ■ 

Buck-Ague 198 

At the Circus 282 



INTRODUCTION 

The great mountain peaks and the broad roll- 
ing plains do not alone make all the earth. 
The little foot-hills and valleys and vales form 
an essential part of the globe. The sayings and 
deeds of great men alone are not all of history. 
The humbler folk often speak and do things which 
are the heart and center of real world events. 
As the little tributaries rising out of the neglect- 
ed and unknown nooks and corners of the land 
flow into and make up the mighty river, so out 
of the obscure places of earth often come those 
tiny rivulets of life that give volume, force, and 
majesty to the deep and broad stream of human 
history. 

Village and city, mart and emporium, with their 
learning and culture do not hold all that is worthy 
to be written down. In the rural and country 
quarters, remote from the noisy centers, there 
are things transpiring daily in unadorned sim- 
plicity whose chronicling is worthy of the best lit- 
erary genius. Out there they too aspire and des- 
pair, struggle and endure, build up and pull down, 
succeed and fail, wage war and make peace, weep 



II Introduction 

and laugh, rejoice and sorrow, love and hate, 
marry and give In marriage, live and die I They 
live life less artificially but no less deeply. Here 
the dramatist may find material for tragedy, the 
comedian may see the juxtaposition of characters 
and life to set the world alaughing, the novelist 
may find the sweetest love stories, the poet the 
subject for epic and song, and here too the moral- 
ist and the philosopher may come face to face 
with those subtle lines and forces so Impalpable 
and evasive In dressed-up life, and behold them 
in all their native reality. 

Here in our South Georgia lived years ago a 
people distinct In their primitive habits and sim- 
plicity. Contented and happy they little dreamed 
of, and cared less for, the big, growing, busy 
world beyond their pine forests and wiregrass 
heath. Once a year, seldom oftener, perhaps the 
head of the family journeyed to the bartering 
place to sell his year's produce which consisted 
for the most part of wool sheared from his flock, 
one or two cow hides, a few sheep and buck skins, 
some tallow and beeswax, and now and then a 
bale of cotton. He bought very few things in 
exchange, for he needed but few. Some farm 
tools and implements for the cultivation of the 
few acres, a sack of coffee, a little white sugar, 
usually made up the bill of his merchandise. Food, 
raiment, shoes, furniture, building material, and 



Introduction 13 

even medicines were raised or manufactured at 
home, or gathered from the forest. 

These people seldom removed from place to 
place. To the wiregrass Georgian his cabin was 
his castle, and the broad unbroken forest his do- 
main. Finding here all that his simple life re- 
quired, he did not care to move or journey to dis- 
tant parts. Fifty years ago it was no uncommon 
thing to meet a man who never had been to the 
city, who never had seen a locomotive, nor a street 
car, nor a storehouse filled with merchandise. The 
extent of his traveling was his hunting and fish- 
ing expeditions to some deer-stand or stream near- 
by. One who had gone so far as Macon, Sa- 
vannah, or Atlanta was looked upon by his neigh- 
bors as some wonderful personage; and his dis- 
coursing on the wonderful things seen in these 
cities was to his comrades as some fairy tale when 
on Sundays at community gatherings, at church 
meetings, or week-day holidays, he would tell to 
the wild-eyed swains the story of the steam en- 
gine, locomotive, fine horses, carriages with four 
wheels, brick houses, painted homes, ice-cold 
drinks, canned fish, and storehouses filled with all 
manner of things to sell ! But many lived, grew 
up, married, reared families, and died never hav- 
ing been to these distant places, nor seen any of 
these wonderful things there. 

Time changes all things 1 Gone forever the 



14 Introduction 

primitive wiregrass homestead! Gone forever 
the primal forests and wiregrass plains ! First 
came the railroads, those autocrats of civiliza- 
tion, caring nothing for the age-long seclusion 
of these regions, and with snort and whistle 
startling the primitive foresters from their long 
sleep of lazy contentment. Wherever the loco- 
motive goes, there is a new earth. "Old things 
pass away, behold all things are new." It was 
inevitable that the wiregrass region was doomed 
to change when the iron horse of civilization was 
turned loose on our plains. Almost at the same 
time, came the sawmill and the lumberman. The 
cruel German was never more ruthless in his 
destruction of European cathedrals and ancient 
Belgian shrines than the ax-man who felled our 
beautiful pine trees and fed them to the iron teeth 
and voracious maw of the sawmill. The deer, 
the wild turkey, the gopher, the fox and the squir- 
rel fled to other parts, or were killed in wanton 
sport. The log cabin with its stick and mud 
chimney, its one door and dirt floor gave place to 
the neat frame dwelling. Then came the modern 
public school, the uncompromising foe of all pro- 
vincialism, and the finishing touch was given to 
the passing of our primitive South Georgia civili- 
zation. Gone the flocks of sheep and herds of 
cattle that once roamed far and near and brought 
wealth to the former citizens. The lonely and 



Introduction 1 5 

roadless wastes have become producing fields, 
thriving cities, and great high-ways. New people 
have crowded in, industry and thrift are in evi- 
dence everywhere. The scream of the locomotive, 
the whistle of the factory, the honk of the auto- 
mobile on every cross-road unceasingly din our 
ears. The "wiregrass region" has caught the step 
of progress. Already our place is near the van, 
and as we are coming to, so we are destined to, 
hold the first place in the South-East of our great 
Republic. 

But we love our primitive forebears. We love 
to think of the life they lived, the trials they had, 
the pains they endured, the battles they fought, 
the burdens they carried, the crosses they bore, the 
joy that was theirs, and the history they made. 
The historian shall yet tell faithfully of them; the 
poet shall yet grow to ecstasy as he gives their 
names in charge to the sweet lyre; the novelist 
shall yet tell their rede so entertainingly that vir- 
tuous maidens will weeplngly linger over the idyl- 
lic page, and manly youths inspired by their devo- 
tion shall delight to become the crested knights 
splintering their lance in defense of honor and 
chivalry; and some log cabin standing in a lone 
patch of pines untouched by the ruthless hand of 
civilization shall yet be the sacred shrine whereto 
devout pilgrims will come to pay homage to a 
past rich in simple but noble living. 



1 6 Introduction 

But that past Is swiftly receding, and soon much 
that is to-day familiar will sink into the dark 
caverns of forgetfulness from whence it never can 
be recovered. We should welcome, therefore, 
every effort to preserve that simple and beautiful 
life of our primitive people. Every scrap now 
written down in permanent form will in the com- 
ing days be cherished more than a lost leaf from 
the sacred Sibylline Oracles. 

So far as I know, no one ever has undertaken 
to put in book form pictures of our wiregrass sec- 
tion as the Author of these Sketches has done. 
My esteemed frined, Mr. John L. Herring, Edi- 
tor of the Tifton Gazette, has done for us a noble 
work. Himself a product of the Wiregrass, he 
has lived the life, indulged in all its pastime, 
shared all its joy, felt all its pathos, seen all its 
sorrow, and been inspired by its noble integrity. 
Through the years he has watched the transforma- 
tion that has changed a wilderness of pines and 
stretches of wiregrass wastes into one of the most 
fertile and richest sections of the state, and seen 
a people emerge from a poor and narrow pro- 
vincialism but little known beyond their own bor- 
ders into a people known far and wide for their 
schools and colleges, their wealth and enlight- 
enment. The pictures he has given are not stories 
he has heard, not simply emotions inspired by 
the mere recital of tales, but what he has felt of 
a life of which he has been a part. 



Introduction 17 

These sketches first appeared in the Tifton 
Daily Gazette under the caption Saturday Night, 
and were read by a wide and admiring circle of 
friends. The work has been a labor of love, — 
love for the dear people who lived and acted out 
the stories, love for a past sacred with hallowed 
memories, love for a present throbbing with new 
hopes that fill each new day with startling pro- 
phecies, and love for a future looming so large 
with possibilities as to give expectations for the 
most audacious achievements. In his devotion to 
the task the author lost the sense of weariness, and 
what was begun perhaps as a mental and literary 
diversion grew into material for a book of many 
pages. The warm reception given them as they 
appeared each Saturday night, and the encourag- 
ing words of close friends, have induced the 
author to put a portion of the sketches in book 
form that they might have a permanent place in 
the homes of our people. 

My good friend asked me to edit these sketches. 
I appreciated the compliment, but when I came 
to the task I felt to alter them in the least would 
be to change their background and mar their sim- 
ple coloring, and to do this would be as profane 
as to daub a Rembrandt or to put fresh paint on 
a Titian. I felt that these sketches were born of 
a loving heart, and the hand of another should 
not hurt the children of one's heart. 



1 8 Introduction 

So they go forth with all the fragrance of the 
resinous pines and the freshness of the wiregrass 
that grew beneath them, both now gone forever! 
but which once covered our broad acres every- 
where; with all the simplicity of the primitive 
civilization that inspired them, and dowered with 
a love and affection that can never die. 

Chauncey W. Durden 

Pastor First Baptist Church, 
Tifton, Georgia. 



SATURDAY NIGHT SKETCHES 



SATURDAY NIGHT 



Memory turns the curtain back, and we live 
again the Saturday night of long ago. 

The week's work is done and the chores of 
the farm are over; the stock has been fed, the 
wood-boxes in the kitchen and big-house filled, 
the plow-gear and stocks are under the shed, and 
.the farm has put on its Sunday dress. 

The soil of toil has been removed by vigorous 
application of home-made soap, and the Sunday 
clothes put on. A clean shirt, home-laundered 
(we were independent of the Chinaman and the 
steam laundrymen those days), a tie of gorgeous 
colors fastened with a glistening pin of the mail- 
order kind — there were no jewelry stores to sup- 
ply us; brogan shoes of serviceable cow-hide 
which took on renewed youth from a coat of suet 
and soot, carefully administered. 

Solomon in his glad raiment perhaps made a 
more glittering show but he did not feel any 
more dressed up than the boy of long ago as He 

19 



20 Saturday Night Sketches 

left the home quickly to foot the intervening miles 
to where She lived. 

She had brothers — they always had — and these 
gave the visitor a hearty welcome. Having done 
his own chores He turned in to help the others, 
and these were over by the time the call to sup- 
per came. She was not in sight, but She knew 
He was there and He knew that She knew. 

The substantial supper consisted of tender col- 
lards on a great, flat dish, flanked with sHces of 
home-raised bacon; fresh butter and butter-milk, 
perhaps biscuits, but not always, and sweet po- 
tatoes. To the long table with its benches on 
either side and Her father and mother sitting at 
the ends, keen appetites were brought and the joy 
of youth and good fellowship lent a zest to the 
viands that those of many costly banquets since 
have lacked. 

After supper, when the dishes were cleared and 
the house made ready for the night; and She 
came out on the piazza, the soft rustle of Her 
skirts, the faint perfume peculiar to Her telling 
of Her presence before His head was turned; 
and after awhile the brothers somehow disap- 
peared and on the broad piazza He and She were 
alone, except for the man in the moon who smiled 
with the knowledge of the centuries and the 
cricket that chirped by the steps. The scent of 
the jessamines in the white clean-swept yard filled 



Saturday Night 21 

the air and their blooms glistened like snow in 
the moonlight. 

Youth and Maid were alone with God and Love. 
Down from the ages the spirits of millions of 
lovers looked on and smiled, the kindly stars 
winked in friendly appreciation, and the twilight 
world was their friend, for all normal existence 
loves youth and lovers. 

What mattered to Her that His clothes were 
coarse. His speech embarrassed and broken — 
they did not need the spoken word. What mat- 
tered to Him that Her best dress was calico, for 
was not the ribbon at her throat a thing of beauty 
surpassing, that in her hair an aureole? What 
mattered to them that the week past had been 
six days of toil? Was not the night Saturday 
Night, and the morrow Sunday, with Sunday 
School and Church, and many hours of priceless 
companionship ahead? 

This must have been what Saturday Night was 
made for. 



THE FIRE IN MORRIS'S WAGON YARD 

"I s'pose everybody has the scare of his life 
sometime; I've had mine," remarked Charlie, as 
he reached across for the bait-gourd. 

We were sitting on our hunkers on a sandy 
bank, by a lightwood-knot fire, waiting for the 
catfish to return to lunch. Charlie was not a talk- 
ative man; neither was he a drinking man, but 
he had seen a lot of life, and if, under the stimulus 
of good fellowship, you could cross two hooches 
of mountain corn with three fingers of apple-jack 
beneath his epiglottis, he could a tale unfold that 
would roll you over on your side and make you 
grab a root to keep from falling into the river. 

"See this hair of mine?" he continued. "It 
ought to have been black, but it has been just 
that color since one night when I was a boy, and 
it'll never change. This is why: 

"Bill Hughes and I drove our daddies' teams 
down to Atlanta with a load of cotton just be- 
fore Christmas. We had to stay over night, and 
before leaving both the old men cautioned us 
about leaving the teams, or the wagons, for any- 
thing. 'Don't even leave the breast-chains on 

22 



The Fire in Morris's Wagon Yard 23 

the tongues,' they said, and they were men who 
meant all of it. 

"Just the same. Bill and I found time hang- 
ing on our hands after the teams had been stalled 
and fed, we had eat supper, and had nothing to 
do 'till morning except watch them wagons. It 
was a big town all 'round us, and things were 
happening. Would we see 'em? We thought we 
would. 

"Before long we were perched near the top 
row of the gallery in the old Lyceum theatre, 
away down on Edgewood avenue, taking in the 
show with dropped chins and bulging eyes. It 
cost us fifteen cents apiece to get in and just about 
broke us, but that made no difference, for we 
were going home in the morning, where money 
didn't count. 

"You could tell we were jays a block away. 
Our brogan shoes, long pants, galluses, hickory 
shirts and old slouch hats were dead giveaways, 
not counting our complexions, the tags of cotton 
hanging to our clothes and the hay in our hair. 
The show was good, but along about the last 
act, my conscience begun to hurt me. I could 
just see, plain as my eye, the hickory switch in 
the old man's hand and what would happen to me 
if anything went wrong with that wagon or team. 

" 'Say,' I said to Bill; 'do you reckon the mules 
are all right?' 'Yes, dry up;' he answered, try- 



24 Saturday Night Sketches 

ing to see exactly how much he could see when 
the gal on the stage kicked again. All the same, 
I could tell the worry-bug was soon after him. 

"Fellers all around had been looking at us side- 
ways; it was plain enough who we were. Finally, 
one setting behind us said to the young buck next : 

" 'That sure was a bad fire down at Morris' 
just now.' 

" 'It was some bearcat blaze,' was the answer. 

"I straightened up, my ears standing out like 
saddle-skirts. 

" 'Burned up the whole wagon yard, mules, 
teams and everything. Cleanest sweep I ever 
saw,' the young feller went on. 

"I looked at Bill; Bill looked at me. Our 
faces were like whitewashed fences. We begun 
climbing out. Had no time to ask for gang- 
way; we just went over knees, feet, and every- 
thing else. Two or three tried to grab us, but 
we were out of reach. Finally we hit the aisle, 
then down the staircase, so fast the crowd thought 
a fire engine was passing and began to run out. 

"Once on the sidewalk, we reached up, grabbed 
off our hats, and down the street we went, like 
a pair of runaway mules. You could hear us 
coming for three blocks, the soles of our brogans 
hitting the pavement like slapsticks. We could 
have turned to the right and by taking a lane 
cut off a block of the distance, but we never 



The Fire in Morris's Wagon Yard 25 

thought of that; we went the way we came. Down 
Edgewood Hke race horses to Auburn; out Au- 
burn to Decatur, down Decatur to Five Points; 
we turned the corners under full steam. People 
saw us coming and got out of the way — if they 
were quick enough; if not, we ran over or jumped 
around 'em. 

"At Five Points a cop ran out and called to 
us to stop. Bill dodged to one side and I to the 
other; he grabbed at both and missed; we left 
him behind. Bill was half Cherokee and some 
runner. He could always beat me easy, but that 
night I kept even, if not a little ahead. Even 
now I can hear the slam of his number eleven 
shoes as he hoofed it home. On the horizon I 
thought I could see the reflection of the blazing 
yards. 

"At the Marietta street police station, the shifts 
had just been made, and the night force was com- 
ing out. They heard us coming — couldn't help it, 
and the men ran out and formed a line across 
the street. 

"We hit that row like a football team on a 
twenty-yard line. Two caught Bill between 'em, 
and a husky 200-pounder nabbed my collar. 

" 'Lemme go,' I panted, biting at his hands 
and kicking at his shins; 'our mules are burnin' 
up.' 

" 'Where's the fire?' he asked. 



26 Saturday Night Sketches 

" 'Morris' wagon yard,' I said. 'Lemme go, 
man; don't you see everything's burnin' up, and 
Dad'll just naturally lick Jerusalem outten me?' 

" 'Be quiet,' he says, giving me a shake; 'there's 
been no fire I' 

" 'Yes, there has,' I struggled out; 'don't you 
see the light? And I heard the feller in the gal- 
lery say so.' 

"They turned us loose at last, and we hoofed 
it on down to the yard, but a short distance 
farther. Up to the gate we ran, and hammered. 
A feller come to the wicket and looked out. 'Let 
us in; where's the fire?' we said in a breath. 
'What fire?' he asked, and we looked around, 
convinced at last. Them mules and wagons 
looked better to me that minute than they ever 
looked before or since, 

"I don't believe anybody ever gets over a bad 
scare; at least I never got over that one. Many 
years after I would wake up in the night, rac- 
ing again for Morris' burning yards, and my hair 
never got back to its natural color. 

"Hand me the bait," said Charlie. 



THE SONG OF THE REDEEMED 

''My latest sun is sinking fast; 
My race is nearly run. 
My strongest trials nozv are past — 
My triumph has begun." 

Through the rough-framed church building the 
"Song of the Redeemed" echoed, accompanied 
by the sonorous notes of the cottage organ. Out 
through the open windows they floated on the 
evening air. And the chorus: 

^''Come, angel hand; 
Come and around me stand. 
Come, bear me away on your snowy wings 
To my immortal home." 

The house was filled, and nearly all were wor- 
shippers. That day there had been a baptizing 
in a stream nearby, the beautiful daughter of 
one of the village's most prominent families, hav- 
ing consecrated herself to God. In the evening, 
the congregation had gathered for the closing 
sermon. 

Around the church house, the waving pines of 
27 



28 Saturday Night Sketches 

the almost unbroken forest bowed in homage to 
their Maker, and through their verdant boughs 
the soft summer breeze murmured a rosary. 

The spirit of the awakened soul permeated the 
atmosphere and impressed every sensitive heart. 
The sermon was over and throughout the audience 
were many bowed heads as the congregation rose 
for the concluding song. 

The words are soul-satisfying to the aged, the 
music inspirational. As the second stanza was 
concluded, a patriarch rose. He was a giant in 
stature, a frame still unbent by age, his beard 
flowed in snowy waves, far down upon his breast. 

With tears streaming down his cheeks, in a 
voice choked but so surcharged with emotion that 
it carried to every recess, he told of his experience, 
how he had been saved by grace, and what a 
wonderful blessing lay in the Redeemer's love. 

When he ceased because his emotion overcame 
him, there were few dry eyes in his audience; 
strong men as well as women wept, denomina- 
tional lines were forgotten, others spoke, and a 
love-feast followed. 

The scene comes back as vividly as though it 
were yesterday. Yet many years ago the patri- 
arch crossed Jordan to his reward; the young 
woman who was baptized, married, raised a 
family and likewise is gone ; the youthful compan- 
ions of that day are aged now, or have also passed 



The Song of the Redeemed 29 

to the beyond; yet on the electric waves of mem- 
ory they come again, and we shut our eyes and 
see them as we saw them then. 

Is It to be wondered, that with such rich founts 
to draw from, many of the modern songs lack 
harmony; modern customs fall to accord and too 
often the modern worship appears to lack spirit? 

For we who are growing old, love to dwell in 
the past, when we were young, and It is youth 
and strength and beauty, not broken, old age and 
uncouthness that we all, even the old, love. And 
even as we write, 

"I know I am near'ing the holy ranks 
Of friends a^id kindred dear; 
I brush the dews on Jordan's hanks — 
The crossing must he near J' 



WHEN THE DEBATERS MET 

The forensic arena was a little log church that 
stood on a hill summit, around It the pines, the 
miles of gently waving wiregrass. It was ap- 
proached from four directions by three-path trails 
easily accommodating the horse-cart, but exceed- 
ingly unhandy for the courting couple. 

The debating society had been organized a 
month before, on the broad ground of individual 
improvement and community entertainment. One 
debate had been held, leaders had been chosen, 
and the topic selected for the next, choice falling 
on the second horn of the twin dilemma. Only 
two topics were in common usage : "Which is the 
happier; married life or single life?" and "In 
which is there more pleasure; pursuit or posses- 
sion?" As the first had been debated to a frazzle 
at the initial meeting the second was, perforce, 
inevitable. 

Before sunset the debaters came — in twos and 
threes, or single, many walking half a dozen miles 
and thinking nothing of it. A few carried rifles, 
with a weather eye out for deer or squirrels en 
route. 

30 



When the Debaters Met 31 

As dusk fell, two candles in borrowed sticks 
set on the split pine pulpit, threw rather a flick- 
ering light over the small room, democratically 
used alike for religious worship, for the monthly 
meeting of Justice Court, for the annual 90-day 
school term and for community gatherings. Al- 
though no residence was in sight, there were a 
number of homes near by. A dozen benches were 
ranged around the wall, leaving ample room for 
the speakers, who sometimes needed it. The pre- 
siding officer, as became his dignity, occupied the 
pulpit, and around the room, the audience, chin 
on hand, or in whispering gossip, waited. 

Opposing sides had been allotted by the simple 
method of spitting on a board and tossing it up, 
"wet" or "dry." The selection of the affirmative 
carried with it the opening of the argument. 

The leader for the affirmative was a man near 
thirty, a little, wiry, nervous fellow, who had 
studied his subject and scored his points with 
pounding of fist in hand and shouting voice; he 
spoke fast but with effect, and clinching argu- 
ment. Interruptions only spurred him on. He 
ran the gamut of the world-old topic, and for the 
doctrine that the greatest happiness lies in the 
chase, in desire, in wish to accomplish, he left 
the subject where there appeared little for his 
opponents to say. 

The leader for the negative was a man of 



32 Saturday Night Sketches 

middle age. He was long and bony, with thin 
beard and a lazy, drawling voice. He wore the 
same jeans pants and homespun shirt in which 
he had been working that morning, and he started 
to open for his choice with as much deliberation 
as though he had the night before him. 

But as he warmed to his subject his quaint, de- 
liberate, sing-song delivery, his slow utterance, 
was seen to cover a keen wit, an acute observa- 
tion, and training in debate. From the storehouse 
of life, he drew illustration and argument; from 
every-day scenes evidence, from personal anec- 
dote conclusions, until those of the opposite who 
at first laughed stopped to listen, to question, and 
even ridicule, in an attempt to confuse him. But 
he turned the questions upon his interlocutors; the 
interruptions only gave him argument. A ready 
wit and repartee soon won him free way. He 
depicted the joys of achievement, of accomplish- 
ment, the glories of victory so convincingly that 
when at last he closed things looked gloomy for 
the affirmative. 

After that, alternately, the speakers came. 
Some flushed and excited, with rapid utterance 
and swift conclusion; some stammering and halt- 
ing until they caught their stroke and swam into 
smooth water. In the main personal anecdote 
predominated. Stories of the community, of mis- 
takes made, of difficulties encountered, of pranks 



When the Debaters Met 33 

played, were told in efforts to embarrass oppo- 
nents, or score points. 

On a rear seat the boy waited impatiently. 
Since he, a visitor, had been notified that he had 
been chosen as a speaker two weeks before, he 
had studied his subject with dihgence; in his mind 
his speech was outhned, a masterpiece of convinc- 
ing eloquence. Now as he listened, he mentally 
went over his salient points, and made notes of 
the weak spots in the speeches of the opposites. 
When his time came, wouldn't he flay 'em ! He 
could just see himself clinching point after point, 
building a masterly structure of argument, with 
interlude of caustic wit and scathing ridicule. 
When he got on the floor, it would be all over 
but the decision of the judges. 

At last his time came. As his name was called, 
he stepped out in front of the president, sprang 
at his opening sentence like a charger to the fray 
and then — it was all over, sure enough ! Where 
was the flowing humor, the convincing eloquence, 
the caustic wit, the masterly argument? Gone, as 
the dews of morning before a furnace blast. Left, 
nothing but a bashful, stammering boy, who got 
out about half a dozen sentences, bowed, and 
blushing, sought refuge in the semi-obscurity of 
the back bench. 

The last speaker for the affirmative before the 
leaders closed was an Irishman, a man of middle 



34 Saturday Night Sketches 

age, who said he had never debated in his life. 
He spoke as if talking to each individual, deliber- 
ately, but convincing, occasionally turning from 
dry argument to wipe out, with true Celtic wit, 
the point made by an opponent. His speech was 
a surprise to his comrades and a calamity to his 
opponents. When he closed, the negatives saw 
defeat inevitable. And so it was. 

But they had their revenge. The Irishman was 
put on the committee of three to select a subject 
for the next meeting and insisted on something 
original and familiar. He discarded all offerings 
of time honored topics, and so dominated the com- 
mittee that they reported, as subject for debate 
at the next meeting: "Which is more desirable: 
a long watermelon or a round watermelon?" 

The society heard in consternation; they knew 
all about watermelons; therefore, they could not 
debate them. Hence, the society, as a society, met 
no more. 



CANE GRINDING TIME 

It is cane-grinding time in South Georgia, by 
some miscalled sugar-boiling time — although lit- 
tle sugar is made, and by others called syrup-boil- 
ing time, but it is not the syrup that draws the 
crowds. The cotton has been picked, the corn is 
in the crib, the potatoes have been banked and 
with the heavy work of the harvest over, the 
manufacture of the sugar cane into the year's sup- 
ply of syrup is made the occasion of a merry mak- 
ing among the young folks. 

This is down where the wiregrass covers the 
sloping hillsides and the pines still murmur and 
sigh in the passing breeze. The first frost has 
touched the waving blades of the tall sugar cane 
and given warning to the watchful husbandman. 

First the cane mill, which has lain idle for a 
year is overhauled. It is a crude affair, two big 
iron rollers set vertically on a pine log frame. 
The forest has been searched for a stooping sap- 
ling with just the right crook and this is cut and 
fitted in place for a lever, the lower end almost 
touching the ground, the upper swinging in the 
air as a balance. The iron kettle — like the mill 

35 



36 Saturday Night Sketches ■ 

rollers a product of a Georgia foundry — is set In 
a furnace of clay. 

Another day is spent In preparation. With 
wooden paddles, sharpened on one edge, the leaves 
are stripped from the standing cane. A stroke 
with a butcher or drawing-knife takes off the top 
and with an adz or hoe the stalks are cut. Then 
they are loaded on the handy ox-cart and dumped 
at the mill. 

The first shafts of coming dawn are aslant the 
horizon and the air Is keen and cold when the 
faithful mule is led out and by means of the plow 
gear hitched to the lever's end. Then for the 
animal begins the weary tread-mill round, which 
lasts far into the night. A lad of the family, too 
young for heavy work, Is selected to feed, and 
with home-made mits to temper the cold stalks, 
grasps a cane as the mule Is started. Between the 
slowly turning rollers he thrusts the smaller end; 
there are creaks and groans from the long unused 
mill, a snap of splitting stalk and the juice gushes 
forth. Along a small trough In the mill frame 
It runs Into a barrel, covered with layers of coarse 
sacking to catch the Impurities. 

On the other side of the mill the cane pulp 
(pummy) falls and this is carried off by the feed- 
er's assistant, who also keeps the pile of cane re- 
plenished. When there is a kettle full of juice a fire 
of lightwood Is started in the furnace and soon the 



Cane Grinding Time 37 

flames, like a beckoning banner, surmount the 
short chimney's mouth. As the juice boils the for- 
eign matter arises in scum, and this is carefully 
skimmed off. Untiring vigilance in the boiling is 
the price of good syrup. Gradually the color 
changes from a dirty green to a rich amber and 
then to a golden red. The aroma arising suggests 
the confectioner's workshop and soon tiny, burst- 
ing bubbles attest that the work is done. 

Then help is called and the fire drawn; hastily 
two men dip the boiling liquid into pails which 
are emptied into a trough (hewn from a cypress 
log) . As soon as the syrup is out, fresh juice 
which is ready at hand is poured into the kettle 
and the work goes on. 

As the shades of night fall, the neighbors, young 
and old, gather, for no man grinds cane alone. 
True, about as much is sometimes chewed, drunk 
in juice or eaten as syrup "foam" as the owner re- 
tains for his own use, but who would live for 
himself alone and what matter, so long as there 
is plenty for all? 

The first visit of the young people is to the 
juice-barrel. There, with a clean fresh gourd, 
deep draughts are taken of the liquid, ambrosial 
in its peculiar delicious sweetness. Then to the 
syrup trough, with tiny paddles made from cane 
peels is scooped up the foam which has gathered 
in nooks in candied form. 



38 Saturday Night Sketches 

Then, until the late hours of the night, the older 
folks sit around the front of the blazing furnace 
and swap yarns or crack jokes. By the light of 
a lightwood-knot fire near by the young ones play 
"Twistification," "London Bridge" and many kin- 
dred games, while on the pile of soft "pummies" 
there is many a wrestle and feat of strength among 
the young athletes. The bearded men grouped 
around the furnace, the steaming kettle and its 
attendant, from whose beard and eyebrows the 
condensed moisture hangs; the shouts of laughter 
from the young merry-makers; the plodding mule 
making his weary rounds, the groaning mill and 
gushing juice form a scene not soon forgotten. 

In a few days when the "skimmings" ferment 
— there is cane beer, delicious with its sweet-sour 
taste, and still later "buck" from the same stuff, 
now at a stage when only the initiated can appre- 
ciate it, ready for the hard drinker or the wild- 
cat still. 



"RUNNING UP" THE BRIDEGROOM 

Bang! Whoop! Whoo-e-e! "Here they 
come!" 

To the crack of revolvers, the pop of seven- 
teen-foot cow-whips, cheers and rebel yells the 
cavalcade, over fifty strong, came in sight over 
the hill. Down the slope, through the vale and 
up the rise to the homestead they rode, yelling 
like Indians and with a thunder like a cavalry 
charge. 

In front rode the bridegroom, on either side 
his groomsmen. The galloping, yelling, shooting 
crowd behind were his chosen friends, companions 
of boyhood and early manhood, to-day gathered 
from a radius of forty miles to pay him this tribute 
of friendship and esteem, according to a time- 
honored Wiregrass Georgia custom, known as 
"running up" the bridegroom. 

We had passed the crowd half an hour before 
as we drove to the home of the bride, sitting on 
their horses in a thicket of pines, awaiting the 
coming of the groom and his best men. Now 
they nearly overtook us as they came, like a whirl- 
wind, bringing her lover to his bride. 

39 



40 Saturday Night Sketches 

Without slackening speed, up to the gate they 
came, the groom and his men springing from their 
still prancing horses, reined suddenly back upon 
their haunches. The reins were caught by ready 
hands, and the honor guests of the day went in. 

The marriage was the union of two of the old- 
est families of Wiregrass Georgia. Sturdy pio- 
neers, stockmen, their fathers numbered their 
acres as their cattle and sheep, in terms of thou- 
sands. For many weeks the news had gone out 
that the marriage day approached and on this 
balmy morning the day before Christmas, from 
all points of the compass they gathered. Coming 
in wagon, in buggy, on horseback, in ox cart and 
afoot, a day's journey was accounted as only one 
to a next door neighbor, for distances were mag- 
nificent then and settlements few. 

The homestead consisted of the "big house" 
built of logs, in double-pen, with broad piazzas 
on either side. The chimneys were of stick and 
clay, well-built and substantial; the roof of boards 
rived from straight-grained pine, the floor hewn 
from the same useful tree. 

Across the white, sanded, tree-shaded yard one 
hundred feet away, stood the kitchen, with its 
gaping fireplace; back a little the smokehouse, 
and farther to the rear the corn crib, all con- 
structed of logs, the universal building material. 

In the house, in the yard, even outside the gate 



"Running Up" the Bridegroom 41 

for some distance the guests were gathered in 
groups and couples. Inside the house was a bus- 
tle of preparation. Everywhere in the decora- 
tions was the festive green and white, cedar 
boughs and arbor-vitae dipped in flour, symbols 
of the wedding time. In vases, on mantels, every- 
where the clusters could be hung, they were in 
evidence, with occasional strings of red "bache- 
lor buttons," and a few brilliant prince-feathers 
and coxcombs. 

Out on the front piazza walked the bride, 
blushing like a June morning, with her maids on 
either side. Dressed in virginal white, with deli- 
cate touches of color in ribbons at neck and waist, 
and wreaths of evergreen on their hair. 

As the groom and his party met them, they 
turned and faced the preacher, a patriarch and 
the head of one of the families. In a simple cere- 
mony, he spoke the words that united the young 
pair for life — for there were no divorces among 
those people. 

Then came the next great event of the day — 
dinner. For a week, the mother with a corps of 
assistants had been preparing for this. Great 
stacks of potato custards, mountains of ginger- 
cakes and cookies, piles of crullers, immense 
chicken pot-pies, baked chicken, turkey, boiled 
ham, beef roast and venison sliced, sausage, souse, 
pork — all of the plenty of this home of plenty, 



42 Saturday Night Sketches 

among a people whose watchword was hospitality, 
and who would have esteemed it a lasting re- 
proach for a guest to leave hungry. 

No house could hold that crowd, and the tables 
were set, end-to-end, across the glistening yard. 
Not much silver, but snowy linen and glistening 
glass; vases filled with cedar, white and green, 
and flowers. Great pound-cakes alternated with 
layer, cinnamon and angel, the more solid cakes 
all frosted and garnished with green. In the cen- 
ter was the bride's cake, pyramided, one upon the 
other, a red apple on the apex, frosted and gar- 
nished in colors. Its cutting marked the advent 
of the wedding-party. 

Talk about eating! To eat was considered 
an accomplishment then. The tables would seat 
hundreds, and as fast as one appetite was satis- 
fied, its owner rose and another took his place. 
A dozen negroes, in long white aprons, their wool 
festooned with feathers of the turkey and chicken 
of many colors, were kept on the jump supplying 
viands that ever disappeared. 

The feast began soon after noon, and as the 
shades of evening came, they were still eating. 

Those were good people, good times, and good 
customs; all are gone now. This is a new age, 
but no better one, and precious memories are those 
of the days and the people who are no more. 

The bride, fulfilling her destiny of wifehood 



"Running Up'* the Bridegroom 43 

and motherhood, was long since claimed by the 
pale groom, Death; the groom is now on the 
threshold of old age, but perhaps in retrospect 
there comes again to him as to the writer, clearer 
even than yesterday, the sunny morning of Christ- 
mas eve, when friends "run him up" to the home 
of the love of his youth. 



WHEN WE PUT JIM AWAY 

"There is a land of pure delight 
Where saints immortal reign." 

Half a dozen voices, four of them female, 
raised the hymn. 

At the head of the grave stood the preacher, 
a man with saintly face seamed with years and 
sorrows — his own as well as others. He had just 
finished the simple service — not read from the 
book, but spoken from the heart, of tribute to 
the man who was gone and of consolation to the 
weeping ones standing near. 

The little cemetery was surrounded by a small 
grove of scrub oaks which crowned a pine-clad 
eminence. All around was the verdant forest, the 
wiregrass covered hills and vales, and leading 
from the resting-place of the dead, the three- 
path trails which then served for roads. 

Grouped around the grave-side were perhaps 
less than a score, but they were Jim's all — kin- 
dred, friends, and neighbors, the latter two in 
one. The men wore clothes of toil, for it had 
been a day of labor of service for them. The 

44 



When We Put Jim Away 45 

women garbed in their best, but the family wore 
no outward signs of mourning — it was not to be 
had so readily, and their grief needed no adver- 
tising. The almost hysterical wife, vainly called 
the loved name as the burdened coffin was low- 
ered to the waiting vault. The aged mother, her 
face almost concealed in the depths of her black 
bonnet, wept silently, as one who had known sor- 
row and drained the lees of the cup; the children, 
too young to know their loss, gazed wide-eyed at 
what they could not understand, the baby in the 
arms of a friend cooing cheerily at its thumb was 
the only bright face in the circle. The women 
friends, who wept as women have been taught to 
weep by a world which treads on the finer things ; 
the men with solemn and sorrowful faces, think- 
ing only good things of the man who has gone. 

For two weeks, Jim stricken with some malady 
beyond the reach of teas and decoctions at first, 
then cathartic pills, blue mass, and other homely 
remedies, lay on his sick bed. When the doctor 
came from the distant town, nearly a day's drive, 
anxious eyes were filled with hope at his presence. 
He went, and came again, and hope died out and 
despair settled in the watching eyes. 

For two weeks, Jim's neighbors came to "set 
up," remaining awake the long night through to 
watch and minister to him, returning to the tasks 
which each day demanded next morning. Men 



46 Saturday Night Sketches 

and women of mature years, on whom the burden 
of watching and ministering fell; younger folks 
who in the irrepressible optimism of youth made 
merry on piazza or in kitchen. Later day science 
tells us this bedside watching is unnecessary, some- 
times even aggravating the patient's malady, but 
to those giving the best they had and to the best 
of their knowledge, it was service bordering on 
divinity. 

At last the end came, and from the humble log 
home was the sound of wailing. Women cared 
for the bereaved of their sex, the men came in 
and did the last and necessary things. Jim, 
dressed in the clothes that had been his best, lay 
on an improvised cooling-board, upon his eyes 
were two coins, around his jaws a handkerchief, 
his hands, the corns of toil pale now, crossed in 
rest and submission; the once busy feet bound 
with strips of black; over all lay a sheet which 
concealed while it revealed. One more night the 
watchers came, with light tread and hushed voices; 
then Jim was borne from the home which his 
hands had built and his presence sanctified, to that 
earthly home which no man may build for him- 
self. 

It was a busy day for the men, called to the 
community duty; all other work for the time was 
laid aside. Word was sent to the distant preach- 
er, who had married and baptized the man who 



When We Put Jim Away 47 

was soon to be only a memory. Some came, and 
with rule measured the corpse, that things might 
be in order. 

Two men with a wagon drove to the distant 
point where a small grist and saw-mill was run 
by a water-wheel, whose owner kept in stock for 
such emergencies, seasoned planks of pine. An- 
other rode to the distant store, where white and 
black cloth, screws and nails were bought. These 
things constituted all the monetary out-lay. There 
were no coffin trimmings to be had then. 

Through the night there was the sound of the 
plane, the hammer and the saw. First the rough 
planks were made smooth, then cut to measure ; the 
upright ends, the bottom and top to the coffin 
shape were soberingly familiar, but the sides re- 
quired a craftsman. First, one-third the length 
down they were sawed half through with cuts a 
quarter of an inch apart and the interval chiseled 
out. Then hot water from a steaming kettle was 
poured on, and the planks carefully bent with- 
out breaking, to the desired shape. The complete 
coffin was covered with black cloth; inside it was 
padded with cotton batting from some housewife's 
store, and lined with white. The box of plain 
pine was a simple matter. 

At the cemetery in the early morning, the men 
chosen gathered for their task. The place se- 
lected, the measurements marked out, they set to 



48 Saturday Night Sketches 

work. Down through the soft soil, into the red 
clay, down through the clay which required the 
pick they dug the traditional three feet by seven, 
to a depth of three feet. Then the vault to fit 
the box was fashioned, around it a six-inch ledge. 
The sun poured down pitilessly, and the task of 
the diggers was not light. Only two could work 
at a time, and they took turns. The finishing was 
by one whom much experience had trained. 

The grave was ready. Then boards were 
sawed to cover the vault with its box and coffin 
that the earth might not rest on them. Across 
the grave two flat fence-rails were laid to sup- 
port the cofljin; from harness on one of the ani- 
mals the cotton lines were taken, to bear it down 
into the waiting receptacle. 

From the home they came, Jim in his coflSn rid- 
ing in a Jersey wagon (no cofllin trust tax nor 
hearse with its sombre draperies of sorrow then) . 
Behind, in vehicles, on horse-back, or afoot, as 
means permitted, the procession followed. 

At the grave, after the simple service, and the 
songs without books, all that was mortal of Jim 
was lowered to the bed which would grow no 
harder, by the hands which not long since he had 
grasped in friendship or jest. A short prayer, 
"ashes to ashes; dust to dust," and the crowd drew 
back. 

The men who had stood at either end of the 



When We Put Jim Away 49 

vault ledge and settled the coffin into place, put the 
lid on the box and screwed it down; across the 
box they placed the short boards handed them, 
and then the men who dug the grave took up their 
task. With turns at the hoes and shovels, the dirt 
was replaced, and over all a mound carefully 
fashioned by a man of skill, to represent the bulk 
of the coffin beneath. Perhaps a few flowers; 
not always, were laid on this; at the head and 
foot, boards were set, and as the shades of night 
fell, we left Jim with God and his mother earth. 

Homely and crude, you say; yet some of the 
noblest men of the earth were buried thus. Men 
who wrote on the annals of their time their mes- 
sage for the generations to come; men who did 
their work in the humble walks of life that their 
children might rise to eminence ; men who wrested 
from primeval nature that which has given us 
plenty; men who fought that we might dwell in 
a land of peace. 

And in his covering, Jim sleeps as dreamlessly 
as the man who was laid away in a metallic cas- 
ket in a marble vault, who was followed to his 
grave by the panoplies of wealth in heartless 
mourning and above whose ashes rise a shaft as 
cold as its inscriptions are meaningless. 

For both have gone before the Great Judge, 
where the things of earth are naught and the 
things men did on this earth are all. Where 



50 Saturday Night Sketches 

Jim will be judged according to his trials and ca- 
pacities, by the great loving and understanding 
Heart and where the man in the casket will be 
judged according to the talents given him, even as 
Christ judged. 

For both have gone to the place of which the 
mourners around Jim's grave sang: 

'Wo chilling winds nor pois'nous breath 
Can reach that healthful shore; 
Sickness and sorrow, pain and death. 
Are felt and feared no more." 



WHEN STEGALL STOPPED GROWING 

Stegall was a runt. 

Although scarcely past middle age, his face was 
wrinkled and old. His stature was but big boy 
size, and his whiskers were sandy and scraggly. 
But there was a twinkle In his watery blue eyes 
that proved that youth still lingered Inside. 

One night, as we shared the featherbed in the 
lean-to shedroom of the big log house, tired but 
not sleepy after a day of replanting corn follow- 
ing a spring freshet and an invasion of field larks, 
he told me why he had never attained manhood's 
growth. 

He had read a good deal and the result was 
evident in his language, but when he grew excited 
he would drop back into Cracker Idioms of 
"wuz," etc. 

Stegall had a habit of taking a chew of tobacco 
on retiring, which was not so bad, as he always 
turned his head sidewlse to spit against the log 
wall. But as he talked, he lay flat on his back 
and tobacco amber would trickle down his throat. 
He would clear, "ahem!" to relieve this and the 
amber went up, descending on friend or foe alike 

51 



52 Saturday Night Sketches 

in a little shower of spray. One soon learned to 
jerk the cover over his head when the warning 
sounds came, but nevertheless, it kept a fellow 
busy, even if he was doing nothing but listening. 

"Old man Johnson, who lived two miles across 
the creek from us, had six gals, and every one of 
'em was as purty as red shoes with blue strings. 
It was a great gathering place for boys on Sat- 
urday evenings and Sundays, and I spent the best 
part of my week-ends there. 

"I was unusually large for my age, though only 
thirteen, looked sixteen. That didn't make any 
difference with Ma, however. She had kept me 
in frocks as long as she could, because I was 
the youngest and there were no gals, and after 
I got into shirts I thought she never would let 
me have pants. You know, boys in them days 
wore long shirts, without pants till about the age 
they want to put on long pants nowadays, and 
knew nothing about underwear, except in the win- 
ter. It was cheaper and saved washing and sew- 
ing — and besides, pants cloth was mighty scarce, 
for we made it at home and wool was so high Pa 
wouldn't leave out much for the wheel and loom. 

"Well, I was still wearing long shirts when the 
gals got to looking good to me. Sometimes 
strangers might laugh a little, but the folks around 
in the settlement were used to it, and the ma- 
jority of the boys were in the same fix I wuz. 



When Stegall Stopped Growing 53 

"I'll never forgit 'tell my dying day the last 
Saturday ev'nin' I wore a long shirt. It was the 
ev'nin' I stopped growing. It was summer time, 
and we knocked off work for the week at twelve. 
I hurried through with my jobs, put feed in the 
troughs for the stock, cut kitchen wood of sap and 
poor heart and carried in for Sunday; shucked 
corn for the hogs and left it where Pa could get 
it. Then I drawed a tub of water with the well 
sweep and piggin bucket, stripped under the wash 
shelter and scrubbed with home-made lye soap, 
put on a fresh ironed, clean, long white shirt, 
and was off for old man Johnson's. 

"Five boys had beat me there, and they and 
the gals were all out on the piazza. It was long 
and wide, with a long shelf holding two cedar 
water-buckets and two tin washpans just to the 
left of the front steps. There were circular holes 
cut in the shelf for the pans to set in to keep 'em 
from wearin' out, and on the two piazza posts 
hung clean, sweet-smelling water-gourds. On the 
ground in front, watered by the dumpings from 
the pans, grew two big cape jessamine bushes. 

"The boys and gals wuz settin' on two pine 
benches along the log wall. Of course, bein' the 
last comer, I went to the water-bucket for a drink, 
though I didn't want any, and then turned with 
my back against the water-shelf to talk a while 
before pickin' out the gal I liked best — already 



54 Saturday Ntght Sketches 

had her picked — and settin' down by her. 

"I was a right smart cut-up in them days, and 
the other young folks had laughed at me 'till it 
turned my head. So instid of settin' down I begun 
to crack at the boys and palaver the gals, and 
when they got to gigglin' — which was an easy job, 
I was soon saying all the fool things and cuttin' 
all the monkey shines I could think of. 

"Never in my life had I made sich a hit as I did 
that evenin'. Everything I said was funny, I just 
loomed. You know what a fool a boy can be 
when a gal giggles? Well, I was all of that and 
then some. 

"Purty soon I noticed that the boys were laugh- 
ing as much as the gals, and it looked like these 
would go into fits. Two uv 'em crammed their 
apurns in their mouths and choked. The boys 
laughed and rocked, and hollered. I felt heroic, 
like a clown we saw in the circus in Albany. 

"Old man Johnson had a bull yearling that was 
the pet of the place. His mother died of the 
hollow-horn the second winter before when he was 
a tiny calf, and the gals had toted him to the house, 
made the old man drive up a cow that wuz givin' 
milk, and raised him by hand. Old Missus John- 
son finally put him out of the house but he had the 
run of the balance of the place, and was as mean 
as gar-broth. He staid in the yard all the time, 
and would hook or butt everything over that 



When Stegall Stopped Growing 55 

wasn't too big fur him. Besides that, he would 
chaw all the cloth he could pick up, especially if 
it was a little salty. You know how some cows 
are, that way. Missus Johnson and the gals had 
to hang their washing out uv his reach, and even 
then he got lots of things they didn't want him to 
have. They called 'im 'Buck.' 

"Well, 'bout the time it looked like the gals 
would go into highstericks and the boys would 
throw spasms, I cracked a joke I thought was my 
best, just to finish 'em. Then, oh Lordyl I felt 
something cold touch the small of my naked back! 
I tried to turn and look but something held me 
fast. I craned my neck and looked overy my 
shoulder, across the water-shelf. There was that 
infernal Buck, standing with his forefeet on the 
edge of the piazza floor, and he had chawed my 
shirt nearly up to my shoulders! (I guess the 
flutterin' white attracted him, and it may have been 
a little salty with sweat.) The boys and gals had 
been watchin' him and that's what wuz nearly 
killin' 'em. It was his nose I had felt. 

"I give a jump, and yell and pulled, but Buck 
had swallowed a couple of feet of the cloth and 
I was fast. It was homespun and wove and a 
horse couldn't tear it. But my jumping scared 
Buck, his feet slipped off the plank ends, and his 
coming down jerked me underneath the water- 
shelf to the ground. 



^6 Saturday Night Sketches 

"I lit on my feet, pullin' and squallin'. Buck 
bellered and pulled, and I thought one time would 
carry me off, for he was sure strong. Finally, I 
got a good toe-holt, set myself and pulled for all 
I was wuth. Something give somewhere, and I 
was free ! Down the walk I went for the front 
gate. Buck right after me, and bellering with 
every jump. 

"Of course, I ought to have backed away, as 
they say courtiers get out of the presence of roy- 
alty, but I didn't have time to think. My first 
impulse wuz to git away, and I went. The only 
thing to do, once my back was toward the gals, 
was to git away as fast as I could. There wuz a 
long walk down to the front gate, but I cleared 
ten feet at a stride. I didn't stop to open the 
gate, but took it with a long jump and hit the 
ground on the other side runnin'. Buck stopped 
at the gate but I didn't slow up. I knew as long 
as my back wuz in sight the gals could see. They 
had squealed and hid their faces, but I couldn't 
trust 'em, and the boys were hollerin' with what 
breath they had. So down the lane I went, my 
toes throwin' up showers of sand behind me, and 
the wet end of what was left of the back of my 
shirt catching up and touching my shoulder blades 
about every ten jumps. It was a few hundred 
miles to the end of the lane, but I turned the fence 
corner at last and no longer felt the eyes of those 



When Stegall Stopped Growing 57 

gals hitting my naked back like pin pints. They 
talk about the unprotected rear of an army; I 
know just exactly how it is. And no Yank ever 
run at Manassas like I did that day. I kept on 
running till I got home and hid in the shuck-pen 
until dark. 

"I never went back to Johnson's, and I would 
walk two miles to keep from meetin' one of the 
gals. 

"I never growed any more after that day." 



FODDER-PULLING TIME 

Beneath a blazing August sun the fodder had 
ripened on Jim's corn, and his neighbors gathered 
to help him pull It. When Jim's fodder was safe, 
the crowd would go over to the next, and so on, 
until the crop of the community had been gath- 
ered. 

For be it known, pulling fodder Is mighty lone- 
some business, when a man is alone. There are 
so many opportunities to stop and look, and rumi- 
nate, so many things to draw a man's attention, 
that It Is only the strong-willed who can keep the 
back-breaking pace in solitude from dawn until 
nightfall. So, as In numbers there Is Inspiration, 
the fodder-pulling season was made a community 
event, all helping the man whose crop ripened 
first, and In turn receiving help. And each needed 
the moral stimulus of numbers, for of all the hot 
jobs on the farm, pulling fodder is perhaps the 
hottest — unless It be tying It up and toting It to 
shelter just after noon, In the face of a lowering 
rain-cloud. 

The sun was not very high when the five neigh- 
bors gathered at Jim's home and he led the way 

58 



Fodder-Pulling Time 59 

to the corn-field. Across a little branch, they 
climbed the worm rail fence, and each man taking 
two rows, set in. Catching the top blades of the 
corn by a hand on either side a few inches from 
the stalk, the hands were brought quickly down, 
gathering the blades as they came, until the stalk 
was stripped to the ground. (Occasionally, if an 
ear was green, a blade was left to collect moisture 
until it matured.) Then on the other row the 
stalk was stripped, each man carrying two rows, 
walking between them. When both hands were 
full of the green blades, they were tied together 
into a "hand," a stalk bent down just above the 
ear and the "hand" hung thereon, or it was hung 
astride the ear if the latter was heavy enough. 
But altogether, practice made for dexterity, and 
despite the detail the work was done with sur- 
prising rapidity. 

Sometimes the fodder was full ripe and tough; 
if so it had to be jerked loose from the stalk. At 
best, the work was trying on the back, and the 
heat of the blazing sun on the stooping body was 
made several degrees harder to endure by a fuzz 
or pollen from the fodder, which irritated the 
skin. Soon, however, the hickory shirts and even 
the denim trousers of the laborers were wet with 
perspiration, and this, with an occasional breeze, 
brought relief. 

Scarcely had the work started, when a race was 



6o Saturday Night Sketches 

on. Neighbor Brown had a son just out of his 
teens, long and lank of limb and sparing of flesh, 
but the way that boy could jerk fodder was a sin 
to snakes. Neighbor Jones had a son about the 
same age, short and rather stocky built, but when 
it came to pulling fodder, he was some hot stuff. 
The two were nearly equal in speed, and the riv- 
alry between them was keen. Tom Jones could 
with greater ease reach the top of the stalk, but 
Sam Brown was nearer the ground, and both were 
experts at the business. 

Gradually, as the men got under good headway, 
it was noticed that each of these boys, who had 
adjoining "throughs," got a little faster; first Tom 
forged ahead; then Sam, and at last the race was 
in full swing. Despite blistering sun and pouring 
perspiration, at it they went, stripping the blades, 
tying the "hands," with rapidity amazing, stop- 
ping for neither breath nor to wipe perspiration. 
As soon as one "through" was done, the first one 
out helping the other (that was his victory) , both 
whirled into the next four rows. The others, ac- 
cepting the champions philosophically, took their 
time, chewing tobacco, exchanged gossip, and even 
told a yarn or so between breaths as the "hands" 
were tied. 

A shout from Sam, who was then slightly in the 
lead, brought good news. A watermelon was 
found 1 Long, gray, rattlesnake striped it was, 



Fodder-Pulling Time 6i 

nestling under its own green leaves and in part 
shaded by the corn. In triumph it was borne by 
one of the smaller boys out to the fence at the 
row's end, and then everybody got a move on 
them to pull out to it. 

In the shade of a pine which stood outside, 
they sat down in the fence jamb, pocket-knives 
were out, and Old Daddy Gray was butchered. 
A feast it was to thirsty palates. Hourly during 
the morning had each turned up the big water- 
gourd which the carrier boys had brought and 
took a long, delicious swig, but water only tem- 
porarily quenches thirst, and this melon was a 
find, indeed. Jim had known where it was all 
along — in fact had denied himself to spare the 
treat for this very occasion. Also he knew where 
two brothers lay, and while this one was being 
butchered and its dripping red heart devoured, he 
stole off and returned with them. For each of 
these men could eat a good-sized melon, and one 
for the crowd would only have tantalized appe- 
tites. 

Would some power could give us now, just for 
an hour, the capacity for enjoyment that made the 
juice of the melon then a nectar supreme, its red 
meat a feast of which Lucullus never dreamed the 
equal. Then no possibility of satiation, no fear 
of indigestion or after consequences — only the 
amazing capacity for enjoyment. 



62 Saturday Night Sketches 

The melon eaten, a brief rest and yarn-spin- 
ning, then a leader arose, and the work was on 
again. During the morning, Tom had been show- 
ing a little better form, and had three "helpings" 
to his advantage. Along about eleven o'clock, he 
was leading Sam, and victory for the day ap- 
peared certain. Then, he stripped a stalk at the 
bottom of which a ground rattler, about a foot 
long, was sleeping. This snake has a temper like 
a dyspeptic, and Tom's foot already had disturbed 
its nap. When his hands came down, the reptile 
struck, viciously. A large agate button on the 
cuff of Tom's shirt saved him from a few hours' 
deathly sickness, for it caught the force of the 
blow and deflected it, the snake's fang penetrating 
the cuff and hanging therein. 

Tom felt the blow and looked down; saw the 
snake and jumped. It followed him, dangling 
from his cuff. Tom thought it had hit the wrist, 
let out a yell that gave a war alarm over in the 
next county and brought the other workers on the 
run. "I'm bit! I'm bit!" Tom yelled, and the 
snake at last dropping off, he made a beeline for 
the house and help. On the way, having heard 
that tobacco was an antidote for snake-bite, he 
devoured the square he had in his pocket. Reach- 
ing the house far in advance of his trailing com- 
panions, he had swallowed the major part of Mrs. 
Jim's winter store of blackberry wine, adminis- 



Fodder-Pulling Time 63 

tered as first aid to the Injured, before some in- 
quiring mind insisted on seeing the place where 
he was bitten, and there was none. Tom went 
back to work, but the ginger was out of him for 
the day. He jumped at every crooked stick and 
shied at every shadow, and Sam had a victory so 
easy that he didn't think it worth while. 

Noon, and the blast of the long horn summoned 
the workers to dinner. It was hot on the table, 
and the men ate while the women waited, and 
occasionally put a word into the conversation, for 
the mothers and daughters had come with the men, 
and Mrs. Jim had help, just as she would help 
others on the morrows to come. 

Chicken pie, of course, field peas, with rich, 
black pot-liquor, strips of fat, rib-filling bacon 
across the top. Pone corn bread, hot light bis- 
cuit and rich butter; cool buttermilk, hot black 
coffee, and apple or peach dumplings, with sauce 
of sugar whipped into butter. Yum, yum ! You 
great old days of good things ! 

After dinner, an hour of rest, a melon cutting 
— for they could hold a little more, despite the 
meal, some courting of course around by the water 
shelf; and then back to the field until the shades 
of night saw Jim's fodder down and they agreed 
where they should meet on the morrow. 

Next day, after nightfall and the dews had 
made the fodder pliant, they came to help him 



64 Saturday Night Sketches 

tie the hands into bundles, and tote these on their 
backs to the center of the field, where they were 
stacked, or to the loft of Jim's barn. 

Modern agricultural science tells us that pull- 
ing fodder is a waste of labor and injurious to 
corn, but we knew no better then. And out of 
our obsession, if such it was, we got a lot of hard 
work and some fun, and the horses and mules in 
the stalls appeared to enjoy the savory product 
with their corn during the winter. days when long 
forage was scarce. 



THE CONVERSION 

"There is a fountain filled with blood 
Drawn from Immanuel's veins; 
And sinners plunged beneath that flood 
Lose all their guilty stains." 

The shades of night surrounded the little log 
church. 

From the unceiled building, the light shone 
between the logs on the horses, mules and oxen 
tethered outside, resting on the deep wiregrass 
beneath the murmuring pines; for many had 
driven miles to attend the revival which had then 
been in progress for a week. It was the early 
fall, and a cool tinge made more comfortable the 
mellow softness of the sweet-scented air of early 
night. 

Inside, the house was crowded. From cross 
joists swung two kerosene lamps and the radiance 
from these fell upon the people filling the rough 
pine benches; in aisles chairs had been placed, 
and everywhere a vacant space could be found, 
on a quilt a child lay sleeping. 

The preacher, a man of power and of the Spirit, 
65 



66 Saturday Night Sketches 

but whose education was that of the pioneer with 
opportunities limited, had finished an eloquent and 
soul-stirring sermon on the mercy of God, His 
power to save from sin, and on iniquitous man in 
a fallen state. There was the sound of women 
weeping, and many heads were bowed in convic- 
tion and prayer. Exhausted by his stupendous 
effort, the aged exhorter had sunk upon a seat, his 
massive head and bearded face upon his hands, in 
an attitude of supplication. 

Someone rose and raised the familiar hymn; 
they needed neither books nor lining. As the first 
words were sung, the audience took it up from all 
parts of the house; it grew in volume, and the in- 
spiring sounds rolled out upon the evening still- 
ness, carrying far across the surrounding hillsides: 

''''The dying thief rejoiced to see 
That fountain in his day. 
And there may I, though vile as he 
Wash all my sins away." 

The Spirit of the Holy Ghost hovered near. 
It was felt in responsive thrill by every heart In 
the house. Expectancy touched with invisible fin- 
gers, for great events were near. 

From a seat near the back of the church there 
was a rustle, as a man of giant stature arose and 
started toward the pulpit. He was a man who had 



The Conversion 67 

walked with heavy feet in the paths of worldli- 
ness; an atheist, a scoffer; one who had been a 
bad example and whose house had been a rally- 
ing place for wayward youth. 

A few days before he had come to laugh, and 
remained to listen. Daily he came to every serv- 
ice, and soon it was apparent that a mighty change 
in his life was coming. Now the watchers saw that 
it was here. As he walked up front, tears stream- 
ing down his furrowed cheeks and his features 
working with emotion, there were few dry eyes 
looking on. 

^^Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood 
Shall never lose its power, 
'Till all the ransomed Church of God 
Be saved, to sin no more." 

And many were saved that night. Around the 
altar knelt seekers after light and forgiveness; 
out in the audience men were weeping with the 
women; here and there someone arose and told 
of the wondrous sweetness of Jesus's love. It was 
nearing midnight when with reluctance they dis- 
persed for home, carrying with them the spirit 
of the Pentecost. , 

Twenty-seven summers, with blazing sunshine 
and pouring rains; twenty-seven winters, with 
their frosts and holidays and festivals; twenty- 
seven springtides, with the rainbow of promise 



68 Saturday Night Sketches 

and the optimism of springing vegetation, bud- 
ding flowers, and season of planting; twenty-seven 
falls, with their harvests, their disappointments 
and their falling leaves, have passed since that 
night. 

The little log church is gone; a brick one has 
replaced it. The pines and the wiregrass are gone 
forever; in their stead are fertile fields and fruit- 
ful orchards. Near where the church stood then 
is one of the leading preparatory schools of South 
Georgia, which every year sends its cultured young 
men and women out into the world to make it 
better. 

The man who experienced conversion that night 
has been gathered to his fathers, but not before 
his light so shone that many saw their way to 
salvation by its radiance; not before his philan- 
thropy and his big heart had set many feet in the 
path of knowledge and on the way to the foot 
of the cross. 

Nearly all the men and women of that day are 
gone, but they left to us their precept and exam- 
ple, and await us beyond the fountain and when 
we join them, 

"Then, in a nobler, sweeter song, 
I'll sing Thy power to save. 
When this poor lisping, stamm'ring tongue 
Lies silent in the grave." 



UNCLE WILEY'S TURKEY PEN 

"No; I don't eat turkey," said Uncle Wiley. 

He was a straight-standing man, despite his 
three-score and ten. Hard as nails, with high 
cheek bones, his sandy hair just touched with gray, 
and a thin, white beard giving an appearance of 
added length to a face already long. He chewed 
much tobacco, which had dyed the lower whisk- 
ers, and as he talked, he spat occasionally, with 
rifle-like accuracy, at a crack in the floor. He 
wore a pair of copperas-dyed breeches, the cloth 
from wool from his own sheep, carded, spun, dyed 
and woven at home. They were made with a flap 
in front, like a cellar door, buttoning down the 
right hip, after the style of sixty years ago. His 
suspenders were of wool, loose knit and elastic, 
and his shirt of white homespun. His shoes were 
the trusty brogans of that day, with heavy half- 
soles put on at home. With his age, he was an 
embodiment of the hardihood and vigor of those 
days that required hardy men to stand the press- 
ure. 

"I don't eat turkey," he continued; "and they 
don't put it on the table at my place. My folks 

69 



70 Saturday Night Sketches 

don't raise 'em, and when I go away from home 
and they have turkey, I don't stay for dinner. I 
have done pUim caught up with my turkey eating." 

"Don't you Hke the taste, Uncle Wiley?" 

"No, nor the smell, nor the gravy, nor even 
the tracks. I ain't no hog, and I know when I've 
got enough, and I have plenty of turkey to do 
me the balance of my life, and if I should be re- 
born, and have it all to go over with three or four 
times, I would still have enough turkey." 

"Once, when I was almost a young man, I had 
a turkey pen, down back of the field on the Lop- 
haw swamp. The wild turkeys were mighty 
troublesome, coming up into the field and eating 
just about everything growing. My folks couldn't 
hardly have a garden, and as for raising peas, it 
was wellnigh impossible. Did you ever see a 
turkey-pen? Simple enough, made of fence rails, 
laid careful, covered with rails, and weighted 
down. You wanted to have plenty weight, I tell 
you. There was a trap door, raised up to let the 
turkeys in. You baited the pen with a trail of 
corn for about fifty yards, and in through the door. 
Back well into the pen you hung an ear of corn, 
and this was fastened to a trigger, which let the 
door fall. 

"I caught a right smart lot of them, one or 
two at a time, but one day, along in the fall, just 
before night I went to the pen, and it was full! I 



Uncle Wiley's Turkey Pen 71 

counted 'em, through the cracks, and there was 
two big gobblers, seven hens, and four young ones, 
just about grown. Don't never tell me again that 
thirteen ain't unlucky! 

"I was used to going in and getting what I 
caught in that pen, and without thinking about 
what I was doing, I moved the sliding rail that 
held the door in place and went in, letting the 
door and rail drop shut behind me. 

"Then something happened. A mine blew up, 
a submarine struck, an airship fell, a shell burst, 
or there was a railroad collision, head on. For 
a time, I thought a cyclone had lit, and I was in 
the middle of It. When them turkeys saw me, they 
went stark crazy. They commenced fluttering, 
trying to fly, butting their heads against the top 
of the pen, and then began running around in it. 

"I told you before the pen was full, didn't I? 
Well, it was more than full — of legs, claws, wings 
and feathers. And don't let anybody tell you that 
a turkey, and a wild turkey, ain't strong. Before 
I knowed what was happening, they knocked me 
down, and each one run over me about three hun- 
dred times. My face was up and it seemed to 
me that every turk had a thousand legs and the 
claws was as big as an elephant's foot. My eyes 
full of dirt, my nose bleeding, and not a square 
inch of skin left on my face, I tried to turn over. 
Just as my head got sideways, the biggest gobbler 



72 Saturday Night Sketches 

hit it full tilt, and every one of them right behind 
him give me another pawing. 

"I thought they was going to kill me. The door 
was shut hard and fast, the top of the pen weighed 
down past a man's strength, and every time I 
tried to raise up, the turkeys knocked me flat and 
run over me nine hundred and ninety-nine times. 
You may laugh, but things was mighty serious, 
and if I had had time I would have said my pray- 
ers. And it looked like the longer them turks 
struggled and the scareder they got, the worse 
upstir they made. 

"Finally, maybe they slacked a little, or I got 
my head sorter back, for I eased around to the 
door, and after a lot of work got my hand through 
a crack and moved the rail that held it down. 
Even then, when I got out, two turks come so 
close behind me that they got away. 

"I shut the door and set down against it until 
I sorter come to myself. Then I cut me a good 
stick, and I let them turks out one at a time, and 
as they come, I knocked them in the head. I never 
did anything that was any more satisfaction to me. 

"Talk about blood and corruption, and the 
ground tore up ! If it wasn't there, then I never 
saw it. I went all through the war, and had some 
pretty squally times, but I tell you, the Yanks 
never give me as busy a half hour as them turks 
did. 



Uncle Wiley's Turkey Pen 73 

"When I went to the house, I liked to have 
scared the folks to death. They thought Indians 
had killed and scalped me. It was two months 
before I done any work, and while I never looked 
as well again, I knowed more. 

"That, son, is when I got a mess of turkey." 



GRANDMA'S SPINNING WHEEL 

The woman, still in the vigor of middle age at 
fifty-five, picked a light, fluffy roll of carded cot- 
ton from the pile in a basket on the frame of the 
wheel. 

Deftly she fastened a twisted end to the sec- 
tion of corn shuck wrapped around the spindle; 
then giving the large wheel a whirl with a quick 
motion of her hand, she stepped backwards, the 
cotton twisting into thread as she did so; she 
advanced, the whirling spindle, driven by the 
wheel-band, taking up the thread; back another 
step, lengthening the thread; forward again; the 
roll is gone. Another is picked up, the end at- 
tached to the frayed end of the thread on the 
spindle, and again the wheel is in motion, the 
spool of thread on the spindle steadily growing. 

The watching Boy, sitting in the little chair 
tilted back against the banister of the back piazza, 
knows that this will go on for hours; the whirling 
wheel, the busy fingers, the two steps backward — 
one step forward; one step back; the spools of 
thread on the spindle growing until full, to be 
dropped in turn into the basket beside the wheel. 

74 




GRANDMA'S SPINNING WHEEL 



Grandma's Spinning Wheel 75 

The Boy was used to home-made things; to the 
hand mill on the post under the big catalpa tree 
in the front yard, where the meal for the family 
bread was ground; the home-made bedsteads, the 
spotless pine tables. The very chair in which he 
sat, was turned by some great-grandfather in the 
remote past and handed down as the heritage of 
the youngest son; the frame of pine; the seat of 
rawhide. 

The Boy knows where that cotton came from. 
Yesterday he helped pick it in the acre patch down 
by the cow pen. Last night he helped Grandma, 
Aunt Ruth and Uncle Jack, pick the cotton from 
the seed by the light of the pine knot fire, 
while Grandpa by the chimney corner smoked and 
looked on. To-day the wheel is out on the back 
piazza^ just out of the draft through the wide 
hallway between the double log pens of the big 
house. The wheel is substantially made of hick- 
ory, the favorite wood, turned, mortised, joined 
and pinned by hand. There is not a piece of metal 
about it except the axle on which it revolves and 
the spindle; and these were hand-forged by the 
nearest blacksmith. They were careful workmen 
in those days, and their work stood. The prod- 
uct did not cost much more than similar articles 
now, for money was dear, but one purchase sup- 
plied a lifetime. Those were simple days, before 
the days of shoddy. 

As the Boy turned his head he could see the 



76 Saturday Night Sketches 

pomegranate trees, with their ripening fruit; the 
pear tree, which had yielded its golden store; a 
little farther on the cherry tree, the source of 
much controversy between the powers that con- 
trolled and himself; and on across the corn-field, 
down by the branch, the muscadine vine along the 
fence, which offered future opportunities. 

As mind turned back to the busy spinner, he 
could in imagination trace the thread in its course 
to the finished product. The spools from the 
spindle would go to the reel, a wonderful piece 
of mechanism (also home-made of hickory) which 
sounded an alarm when a thousand yards were 
wound; from this reel the thread would come in 
hanks, ready for dyeing. Then the boiling of the 
dyes out-doors in the big iron wash-pot. The in- 
digo, which had grown near the well shelter had 
been cut, cooked, and the settlings saved for dye; 
the logwood and copperas bought from the dis- 
tant store; the pomegranate and walnut hulls, like 
the indigo, home products. The Boy had watched 
as the different threads were dipped in these col- 
ors, producing the necessary variety for the con- 
templated woven pattern. 

After drying in the air for several days, the 
thread would go to the loom, that huge structure 
of framed pine, standing on the north end of that 
rear piazza. A work of days it would be to 
thread the warp between the upright reeds on the 



Grandma' s Spinning Wheel 77 

loom carriers, each thread having a separate space, 
and it appeared to the Boy that there were at least 
a thousand in each of the two carriers. "Laying 
the cloth" was counted the most difficult part of the 
weaver's work. The filling was an easy matter. 
It was wound on spools just the right size to fit 
into a long mortise In the shuttles — strips of wood 
in the shape of small bateaux, flat, and sloping at 
top and bottom to points at both ends. 

When all was ready. Grandma would mount 
the high loom bench, her feet on the treadles. As 
one foot pressed, one warp carrier went down, 
the other up, the threads crossing as you cross 
your fingers at a fish story. Then between the 
upper and the lower threads the shuttle was thrust, 
from side to side, and a swing of the hanging 
packer drove the fresh thread snugly back against 
its fellows. Down went the other treadle; the 
threads crossed again and back to the other side 
the shuttle traveled; so on, as the hours passed, 
until thread by thread the yard-wide cloth grew. 

There were many intricacies among the rudi- 
ments of the weaver's art, and the rudiments re- 
quired much skill. There were puzzling patterns 
for rag carpets, bed-covers, children's llnsey 
dresses and home ornaments; the women's dresses 
were nearly always of sober, dark colors; the 
men's pantaloons of copperas yellow and the 
shirts of white. 



78 Saturday Night Sketches 

From the thread and the finished cloth, the Boy 
could see the cutting of the garment during the 
long winter evenings by the fireside; the making, 
by busy fingers plying the needle in and out of 
the fabric, pinned to the sewer's knee. For sew- 
ing machines we had none then. 

But as the Boy watched he could only see for 
the future what the past had coached him was 
coming. He could not see the cloth garment, worn 
out after many years and discarded; the wheel 
lose its cord band, its polish and spotlessness; then 
disappear; even the massive loom pass into mem- 
ory, and Grandma last of all join the dust of the 
centuries. 

For while all were of a day that was good, they 
were of a day that has gone; part and parcel of 
a time when a country was in the making, they 
filled their allotted part and then gave place to 
a new age. An age of much shoddy, of many 
pretenses; an age when the individual loses iden- 
tity in average; an age cosmopolitan, but never- 
theless a good age, for its men and women of 
endeavor; the jewels in the jumble of makeshift; 
the pure gold in the medley of dross; if the indi- 
vidual is not so prominent, the average is good. 

But to the Boy (gray now and himself grand- 
pa) when the curtain of memory rolls back, the 
whirr of that wheel is the hum of Industry; the 
busy woman the type of Perseverance; the mas- 



Grandma's Spinning Wheel 79 

sive loom an emblem of the sturdy race of that 
time — all, the housewife, the wheel, the loom, 
sacred memories of the Past which made the 
Present possible, because they saw their duty and 
did it well. 



SUNDAY AT OBEDIAH GAY'S 

A summer Sunday morning and with time hang- 
ing on their hands, Bud and the Boy went over 
to neighbor Gay's to spend the day. 

It was only a seven-mile walk, and there was 
no road, only a dim horse-path trail led through 
the wiregrass and unbroken pine forest. Branches 
were crossed by leaping from one tussock to an- 
other, or the Boy, barefoot, frankly waded. It 
is interesting to note that where the forest stood 
that day, now lie some of South Georgia's finest 
farms. 

Neighbor Gay lived in a single-pen log house, 
set back in the field. In this house he had raised 
a family of seventeen. It was built when no 
lumber was to be had and man depended on his 
own resources and those of nature. The walls 
were of pine logs, cut while clearing the field that 
surrounded it. The cracks were ceiled with long 
strips, or boards, rived from split pine, with a 
frow. The floor was of puncheons — logs split 
and hewn smooth on one side. The roof was 
covered with three-foot boards, rived as those for 
the ceiling, only one-third as long; the wide chim- 

80 



Sunday at Obediah Gay's 8i 

ney was built of sticks split square from blocks 
of pine, laid pen fashion, the interstices filled with 
clay. To build a chimney required skill in con- 
struction as well as in selecting and mixing clay. 
The doors, likewise of split boards, hung on home- 
made hinges of black-gum. 

The field in which the house stood was sur- 
rounded by a worm rail fence, and entrance was 
through a set of bars sliding into mortised holes 
in posts on either side. A white sandy path led 
from the bars to the house. This was a great 
game country then, and neighbor Gay lived near 
the banks of a stream where fish and game were 
plentiful. A dozen reed fishing poles stood in 
the chimney corner and more than a dozen deer- 
hounds raised a vociferous alarm as the visitors 
approached. Two of the older boys — young men 
in fact — tall, well-knit fellows, came down to the 
bars to guard them in. 

At the edge of the clean-swept yard, between 
two green cape jessamine bushes, the head of the 
house met them — a man past sixty, tall, erect, and 
vigorous, a typical pioneer. With the easy, open 
hospitality of the times he made them welcome, 
and showed them to seats under the big wateroak 
that shaded half the yard. The older men 
swapped what news there was in those days of 
no newspapers; the boys were soon engrossed in 
the games of the day. 



82 Saturday Night Sketches 

It was late summer, and soon up from the corn- 
field below the house came two larger boys, car- 
rying a big cotton-basket 'filled with roasting-ears. 
It was no mean task to feed that family. Later 
the call to dinner came, and preparatory ablutions 
were performed at a tin wash-basin on a shelf by 
the front door. The water was in a cedar pail 
on a shelf made by driving long pegs into holes 
bored in the log walls and laying boards across 
these. It was dipped with a long-handled gourd, 
from the vine which grew out over the rail hen- 
house, and the soap was made with lye in the big 
iron pot which stood in the back yard. 

The kitchen was a sister of the big house, ex- 
cept the fireplace was broader, to make room for 
the cooking utensils, and there was no floor, or 
rather the floor was of clay, tramped hard and 
worn with feet of many generations. The table 
ran the length of the kitchen, and was then too 
short to accommodate the family and visitors — 
the smaller boys waited, hungry-eyed, until given 
ears of corn to piece out with. 

It was the first feast of green corn of the sea- 
son, and it was in plenty, boiled on the cob, and 
piled high on blue-edged plates which were fam- 
ily heirlooms. The seats were long benches of 
split, hewn logs, and at either end was a stool of 
the same. Besides the corn, there were corn-bread, 
the first sweet potatoes of the year, and fresh beef, 



Sunday at Obediah Gay's 83 

butchered from the big herd the previous day. 
Homely fare, but the feasters had appetites for it, 
and hospitality was of the generous kind that saw 
the guest was a good trencher-man. 

After dinner, the girls of the family appeared 
in bright calicoes, with an aroma of cinnamon 
drops. From distant homes young men dropped 
in, for where there are girls, there boys will be 
found. Soon they separated into couples, and the 
pleasing business of life began. There was a girl 
in pink calico about the Boy's age but both were 
bashful as yet. Bud was married, so he and the 
home boys soon had a game of marbles going in 
the yard which was level with just enough sand 
to afford good playing. 

A ring was made by putting down the thumb 
and spanning the long finger in a circle. In the 
center was put the biggest marble, four others in 
the ring around. Each player had his own "taw" 
which was always carried in his pocket. 

Back fifteen feet or more was the "taw" line, 
and from this each player shot In turn, thumping 
his taw with his thumb from the concaved fore- 
finger of his right hand. The first attempt was to 
"tip the middle man," which gave the lucky one 
the game. So expert did some players grow that 
It was sometimes tipped as many as three times 
before the start from the taw line was over. The 
game was then to get a majority of the five mar- 



84 Saturday Night Sketches 

bles shot from the ring or to "kill" off the other 
players by well-directed shots. 

It was a great game, requiring some skill, and 
many cries of "roun'ance," "vence yer roun'ance," 
"knucks," "hold studdy hand," "vence yer any's," 
etc., and more than once a dispute as to the en- 
forcement of the rules of the game, well-known 
and usually closely adhered to. 

The Boy, with the others of his size, was busy 
in the absorbing game of "knucks," and "mumble- 
peg." The first was played much the same as 
"roily-holey" of to-day, rolling marbles into a se- 
ries of four holes; but with the difference that the 
last one to complete the circuit had to put his 
knuckles down on the taw line for the others to 
take a shot at. "Mumble-peg," as now, was clev- 
erly twirling an open pocket knife so that it de- 
scribed a circle and stuck upright. But then the 
one who lost had to root out a peg driven tight 
in the ground with his nose, and that was some 
mean job, believe me, and left a sore if not skinned 
nose. 

Lengthening shadows warned that night ap- 
proached, and the seven-mile walk home com- 
pleted a full day. 



CARRYING THE COTTON TO MARKET 

Mid-afternoon the start was made. The bale 
of cotton, brought from the gin several days be- 
fore, was loaded on the wagon; tucked in around 
it a supply of forage for the oxen; in a cheesebox 
a grub stake for the round strip. Perched on top 
of the bale, the Boy, in his Sunday best, drove, 
the Father riding and walking — usually the latter. 

The first part of the road was lonely; out by 
the village cemetery; then miles and miles of un- 
broken pine forest, before first the small farms 
and then the large plantations along the river bot- 
toms were reached. Long before this, night had 
fallen, and one part of the journey was as lonely 
as the other. Both travelers were accustomed to 
self-entertainment; the oxen patiently plodded off 
the long miles, and man and boy took naps, trust- 
ing to their team to "keep the road." 

Some time after midnight, but before the morn- 
ing star shone in the east, they arrived at the 
crossing of an old stage road, two miles out from 
the city. Here was the last timber, and camp was 
made. The oxen were unyoked, tied to saplings 
and fed, and on quilts spread beneath the wagon 

85 



86 Saturday Night Sketches 

man and boy slept until morning. With daybreak 
they were up, the oxen hitched and the outskirts 
of the city reached in time for an early cup of 
coffee at a lunch stand near the bridge entrance. 

This bridge, spanning a broad and rapid river, 
was an object of dread both to the boy and to 
oxen. Snorting in fright, the team was with dif- 
ficulty urged up the long approach; under the 
hollow, resounding, covered and walled bridge 
proper, they pulled in the yoke against each other 
— their hoofs slipping on the floor, while the Boy 
clung to the cotton bale, momentarily expecting 
the wagon wheels to run off the end of the flooring 
and plunge wagon and all into the rushing waters 
thirty feet below. Out from the covered bridge 
at last the oxen rushed down the incline at the 
farther end, being stopped with some difficulty by 
the toll-keeper under the arched entrance at the 
bridge house. Here they were passed on the 
promise to pay the toll when they came back; a 
common custom, for few going into town had 
money. And safe enough, for over the bridge 
was the only way home. 

At last they were "in town" and the boy shrank 
down a little on his high perch at the noise around 
him. To the big brick cotton warehouse, where 
negroes threw the bale off the wagon and rolled 
it under the warehouse shed and with a long augur 
a sample was taken. Back into the wagon-yard 



Carrying the Cotton to Market 87 

the team was driven, unyoked and Installed; the 
"things" stored in the common camping-house un- 
der the eye of the negro care-taker, the price of 
whose services was a dram of "busthead" before 
departure. Out man and boy went to sell the 
cotton. 

It appeared to be by common consent that no 
bidder would offer what he expected to pay, but 
each would start with a low figure, expecting to 
be raised — which was done. It was a matter of 
much walking, much dickering, and many inquir- 
ies as to how much "trade" was In It, before what 
the seller saw was the top price was reached, and 
the deal closed. 

Then, an orgy of buying ! Women are not all 
the bargain hunters In the world. As a reward 
for much toil in the cotton field under a hot sum- 
mer sun, the Boy was to have his first "store- 
bought" suit, and the purchase was an event. The 
proper color — a compromise between a desire for 
the gaudy on the part of the prospective wearer 
and a careful precaution against early fading by 
the wary parent — was found after a while. Then 
the size — It must be large enough to "allow for 
growth" (with a consequence that the suit never 
fit, being too large when new and shabby from 
age when at last the Boy grew to it). Last, the 
price; rock-bottom being finally struck after much 
palaver. 



88 Saturday Night Sketches 

Then there were the hickory checks, the calico, 
the "narrowed homespun," the thread and card 
of buttons, the shoes, and finally the bundle of 
spun thread to fill Mother's list. The sack of 
flour, the coffee, the "sure 'nuff" crawling sugar, 
for the family larder. Father perhaps got a new 
hat, a pair of brogan shoes, and a caddy of to- 
bacco for his part. Even into luxuries they went. 
A pound of beautifully striped candy, a section 
of cheese for the home table and for lunch en 
route, and, crowning luxury, a can of cove oysters ! 
The mouth waters now at the remembrance of the 
appetite-inspiring label. 

The great wealth that in one bale of cotton lay ! 
For then there were no notes for mules, or guano, 
or farm supplies to be met, and what was paid 
for the single bale of the year's crop of cotton, 
belonged to the grower. 

Back to the wagon-yard, walking on air in a 
dream of riches; the oxen watered and yoked, 
the homeward journey began as the lengthening 
shadows told that another night was near. The 
toll man was paid at the bridge, and still Father 
jingled silver and put away a few bills against a 
time of need. Even the bridge had no terrors 
now, the oxen pacing over, with heads lowered, 
as they recognized the homeward trail. 

No need to drive — the team knew the way and 
nothing could turn them from it. No stop for 



Carrying the Cotton to Market 89 

camp to-night — home was the goal of travelers 
and team. When night fell the precious can of 
oysters was hacked open with a hatchet and the 
contents devoured; the last drop of juice soaked 
up with soda crackers. Then cheese and candy 
and crackers to wedge it down, and Father and 
Boy stretched themselves in the wagon and slept 
away the homeward journey. The arrival was 
during the early morning hours; first care for the 
tired and panting team; then the loud call to the 
Mother who waited, the proud exhibition of the 
purchases of the trip; then sleep until the break- 
fast summons. The Day of the year was over. 



THE CAPE JESSAMINE 

There were two rows of the dark green bushes 
of cape jessamine, one on either side of the 
walk leading from the front gate to the door of 
Her house. The house was made of logs in 
double-pen. There was a twenty-foot hall be- 
tween the pens and on either side of the big log 
rooms were two shed-rooms; between the shed- 
rooms were wide piazzas. The sheds and the 
flooring were of lumber sawed by a straight saw 
before the days of the circular one, and the planks 
split out about six inches from the end of the log 
with an axe. The plates and sills of the house 
had been hewed by hand. It was massive in con- 
struction and the roof was of shingles, riven with 
a frow and drawn with a drawing knife. Inside 
the log rooms the cracks were sealed with long 
laths, riven like boards. Outside, these cracks 
afforded convenient receptacles for rows of fresh- 
laid eggs, for fishing lines, almanacs and an oc- 
casional newspaper. Usually this outside wall 
was ornamented with festoons of long strings of 
red-peppers and silver onions carefully provided 
against winter's need. The cool, open hall was 

90 



The Cape Jessamine 91 

a favorite sleeping place on hot summer nights 
for the older members of the family and for af- 
ternoon naps in crop times. The big house was 
a great gathering place for young people. 

When the cape jessamines bloomed in the 
spring we were usually there. They smelled 
sweetest on Sunday afternoons, when their odor 
filled the air. The front fence was of straight 
rails and the top of the posts was a handy place 
to hitch a horse. As He hitched, over the tops 
of the jessamine bushes could be caught a glimpse 
of the group on the front piazza and usually She 
was there. Her face was the white of the jessa- 
mine. Her cheeks and lips the color of winter 
pinks and her eyes of the blue of the morning- 
glory that trailed from the ground to the roof 
and shaded the water-shelf at the piazza's edge. 
A ghmpse of Her was all one got from the gate 
but that over the jessamine bushes made it im- 
possible to forget them ever. 

And as night approached and the shadows fell, 
in the dusk they stood together by the jessamine 
bushes. The things that were said were too sacred 
to tell. Yet they are things that every man of 
thirty has spoken and every woman of twenty-five 
has heard. She held a jessamine flower in Her 
hand; He has It now, faded and yellow, among 
his cherished keepsakes. 



A CANDY-PULLING IN THE WIREGRASS 

"Hold your own, Jack!" 

"Good for you, Ailsa; pull 'im around 1" 

Thus the partisans of the lad and lass shouted 
encouragement to each favorite, Ailsa was strong 
and buxom, and with the advantage of several 
points avoirdupois was pulling Jack, who held the 
other end of the hank of rapidly hardening syrup 
candy, hither and yon. At last, in their meander- 
ings, they passed one of the large lightwood posts 
supporting the sugar-mill shelter. Throwing his 
arms around it and seizing his end of the candy 
in either hand. Jack said, "Now, pull!" And the 
post held. 

From a radius of half a dozen miles the young 
folks had gathered to help Jim Spillers put the 
finishing touches to his cane crop. All the week, 
while he had been grinding, some of them dropped 
in each night to chew cane, drink juice, eat the 
foam from the new syrup and entertain Jim while 
he patiently skimmed the kettle. Having depleted 
his cane crop as much as possible, the young folks 
had begged him to give them a candy-pulling on 
the last night, and Jim being the soul of hospi- 

92 



A C an dy-P tilling in the Wire grass 93 

tality and having grown a crop of sugar-cane for 
his own good use and pleasure, consented. 

The last boiling of cane-juice had been cooked 
into syrup, and when it was dipped from the big 
iron kettle with a long-handled gourd, a gallon 
or so was left and in a few minutes this had cooked 
until the expert, holding up a paddle dipped into 
the syrup and watching the drops as they hung, 
lengthened and fell, pronounced it candy. 

Then it was dipped up into buttered or larded 
plates and the young folks, pairing off into couples, 
each took a portion. As the edges cooled, the 
candy was lifted with a table-knife and pulled 
until the nucleus for a hank was formed. Grad- 
ually each worked up the candy until it was all 
transferred from the plates, and a small hank was 
held. Then lad and lass put their hanks together, 
and each pulled an end. 

The lad, holding tight to one end of the candy, 
with one hand, would catch the candy up close to 
the girl's hand with the other and pull. She in 
turn would catch close to his hand and pull, and 
the candy would be stretched in the shape of two 
Vs. This would be repeated until the mass, at 
first mahogany brown, would gradually change to 
russet, then to golden, until at last, by the time 
it grew too hard to pull, in the hands of experts 
who worked fast and did not lose too much time 
courting, it would be almost white. There wa.s 



94 Saturday Night Sketches 

keen rivalry between couples to produce the bright- 
est hank. 

A lightwood-knot fire, on a tiny shelter of pine 
K ^rds covered with earth, lighted the scene. 
Art^nnd the darkness, like a wall; above, the sky 
a detp blue with stars like tiny incandescents ; the 
tOjps of stately pines silhouetted horizonward; the 
lau^'hing couples, pulling, chatting and making 
merpy', youthful forms swaying and changing in 
the flickering light. 

As the candy hardened, pulling grew more dif- 
ficult, and it became a test of strength if strength 
was exerted. 

It was then that the contest between Jack and 
Ailsa afforded a hearty laugh. But the lads were 
more gallant; gradually the couples drew apart, 
and voices were lowered as sweet nothings were 
whispered or softly spoken, and when the time to 
bring up their candy came, more than one pair 
would blush as the dark candy gave evidence that 
they had forgotten for the time the business in 
hand. For candy, like opportunity, must be pulled 
in its time. 

The hanks were deftly lengthened, cut into short 
pieces by quick strokes of a knife and laid on 
buttered plates to harden. It was ready to eat 
then, and each couple, together with the old folks 
who had been looking on and the children — there 
were always children — reaped the reward of labor 



A Candy -Pulling in the Wire grass 95 

or watchful waiting. 

As the candy was eaten, the conversations be- 
gun during the pulling were resumed, and He 
might just as well have been eating sawdust or 
gum for all He knew of the taste, for He was 
looking into the brightest eyes on earth, watching 
the colors come and go in the fairest cheeks, and 
the hesitating words that came from Her lips 
would have discounted in sweetness the most ex- 
quisite product of mortal's most talented confec- 
tioner — for the work He was gazing on with His 
soul in His eyes was divine. 

Matches were made in heaven — but the old- 
time candy-pullings made their share, and some- 
times they were pretty near heaven. 



CORN LIQUOR AND TUTT'S PILLS 

Rich Hayes had spring fever. 

He was slow getting to work in the morning, 
and when the mule turned in the jamb of the 
fence at the end of the row, he would gaze dream- 
ily into the hazy distance. The whites of his eyes 
had a yellowish tinge, and he complained to his 
employer that his chew of cut plug had lost its 
savor. 

"You are bilious," the boss told him. "Next 
time you go to town, get a box of pills and take 
'em. They'll straighten out your liver, and set 
you up all right." 

Saturday afternoon, Rich was sent to town with 
the team for supplies. Again he was admonished 
about getting the pills to straighten him up, and 
he promised not to forget. 

Night came, and no Rich nor team. Supper 
was over, and it was well on toward bedtime be- 
fore the boss, sitting on the front piazza, heard 
the thump of the wagon axle, and later a snort 
from one of the mules. There was a full moon, 
and soon the team could be seen coming down the 
lane. It would stop a while, then come on; then 

96 



Corn Liquor and Tutt's Pills 97 

stop again. Puzzled a little, the boss walked out 
to open the big gate leading around to the lot, 
and stood leaning thereon, watching the oncoming 
wagon. 

The flood of moonlight was almost as clear as 
day, and as the waiter watched, and the mules 
turned down the short lane bordered with water- 
oaks which led to the house, he saw the man on 
the wagon double his arms across his chest, rock 
backward. and forward as if tickled to death, then 
jump down from the wagon, make a running start 
for the rail fence, hit it with a running jump two 
rails below the top, and go over on the other side, 
the rails tumbling after him. 

The mules came on, and the boss gave them 
his first attention. Then he went to look for Rich, 
but he was not to be found. A search of the 
wagon disclosed the supplies in good shape, and 
underneath the cross pine board used for a driv- 
er's seat was a quart bottle that smelled of corn 
liquor and a pill box — both empty. 

Monday morning, bright and early. Rich 
showed up for work, a little pale, but with the 
yellow gone from his eye. He was wearing a 
new outfit of jeans pants and hickory shirt. 
Asked what had happened, he grew eloquent. 

"Corn liquor and Tutt's pills may be mighty 
good things when they are by themselves," he 
said, "but they won't do to mix. I tell you how 



98 Saturday Night Sketches 

it was, Mr. Greene. I bought the pills, just like 
you told me, and then I thought what a good 
spring tonic old corn is, and I felt like I needed 
a tonic. So I gave John Hall my last fifty cents 
for a quart, and started home. 

"It was still good daylight, and I took out the 
little round wood box of pills and read the direc- 
tions. It said one to three was a dose, so I took 
up one of the little, white fellows, and swallowed 
it, washing it down with a swig of corn. It tasted 
sweet, so I thought I had just as well take a full 
dose, and took three, with a swallow of liquor 
after each. 

"Then I felt I needed more tonic, and took a 
drink by itself. That wasn't giving the pills a fair 
show, so I took another one of them and that 
called for a drink, and the drink called for an- 
other pill. They were clean, sweet, little things, 
and about two dozen in the box. That see-saw 
game went on until I just have a sort of dim idea 
of the balance. The mules jogged along at their 
own gait, and I began to notice the wagon jolted 
awful. 

"I didn't feel the effects of the pills until they 
and the liquor gave out about the same time. 
Then they got busy, I guess the corn made me 
a little dazed, but I know just how one of them 
volcano mountains feels before it blows up. I 
thought I was going to. Also, I understand how 



Corn Liquor and Tulfs Pills 99 

a barrel of corn mash stirs around when It's in 
ferment. 

"If you can imagine how it would feel to have 
a bunch of chained-Hghtning, a kicking mule, a 
bundle of wiggling snakes and a red-hot barbed 
wire fence galvanized, all doing business inside of 
you at the same time, you can have just a faint 
idea of what I went through with, but you can't 
know it all. It would have killed me if it hadn't 
been for the liquor making me sorter reckless and 
dummy like. The next thing I remember after 
throwing away the empty pill box was waking up 
at home Sunday evening. 

"I've had enough pills and corn liquor to last 
me my lifetime." 

He had, but the spring fever was gone. 



A WIREGRASS EASTER 

We walked to church — we had no other way 
of going. The path led over the gently undulat- 
ing hills, through swishing wiregrass, verdant with 
the return of spring. Overhead the sighing pines 
also had taken on a brighter tinge with the life 
of the new year. The poplars and blackgums in 
the branch to the right were in leaf; the dark 
green of the bay was relieved, as by a snowy 
shower, by the dogwood in full bloom. Out on 
the edge of the bushes the gall-berries formed a 
greenish-saffron background for clumps of honey- 
suckle in full pink flower. The air was heavy with 
perfume, redolent with the lassitude of spring. 

The little log church stood In a small grove of 
oaks on top of the hill. Between the cracks of 
the logs the spring breeze came unobstructed; the 
tiny shutterless windows on either side were use- 
less. The broad door In one end marked a divid- 
ing aisle, on either side of which the rough benches 
were ranged. On one side sat the women and 
girls; on the other the men and boys. In the pine- 
board pulpit stood the preacher, a patriarch with 
white, flowing beard, deep voice and a knowledge 

100 



A Wire grass Easter loi 

of the Bible gained tlirough many years of study 
at noon rest time, or by the light of a tallow 
candle, or a lightwood-knot fire. 

The Boy lounged lazily on a bench underneath 
the small window and watched the door. For a 
while vainly, and then She came 1 And with her 
a breath Elysian, a sense of completeness; all in 
the world worth while was there ! 

Not even a small part of the large sum re- 
quired now for Easter toggery went toward her 
adornment, but to the eye nothing was lacking. 
Her dress of delicately figured calico had been 
fashioned by her own skilled fingers; with tight- 
fitting basque and flowing skirt her figure was 
faultless; just the tips of her shoes showed as she 
stepped, a rustle of many skirts betraying the 
efficiency of the home laundry. A ribbon at her 
waist, another at her collar; a tiny bunch of vio- 
lets pinned at her breast. 

No Easter bonnet of fabulous price upon her 
head, but a real bonnet of pink calico, corded and 
quilted until it stood out stiffly as board (aided 
by thin strips of pine inserted), enshrined her 
face, as a priceless living picture in its frame. 

A wonderful thing, that bonnet. Its front came 
down as her chin retired, just at the time to tease ; 
it went up as her head was raised, in a manner 
most alluring. Back in its depths her cheeks 
glowed with the blush of the rose in springtime; 



I02 Saturday Night Sketches 

her eyes sparkled with the light of the stars in 
summer; her hair rippled as the nut-brown throat 
of the thrush, catching the light from the sun- 
beams dancing outside; her fluttering breath came 
and went as the perfume of the summer pinks 
beside the walk at home. 

Then, the bonnet was laid aside to catch the 
summer air, and all the wonderful glories it had 
half concealed came with amazing suddenness to 
the youth who gazed, entranced. Only one brief 
glance did she vouchsafe him, when she turned 
reverently to where the preacher, who had opened 
his Bible, was searching in his hymn book for the 
Easter anthem to line to the waiting congregation. 

A sermon of power it was, of the risen Jesus, 
and the fearful price he had paid, but of a Jesus 
triumphant, because He had conquered by love; 
of the promise and the Invitation; of the wonder- 
ful brotherhood of Man and the certainty of im- 
mortality through Him who went down into the 
grave and rose again to live and conquer, giving 
life everlasting through death of agony. 

When the sermon was over, the Boy was wait- 
ing outside. She came hesitatingly, laughing with 
girl companions, and pretending not to see. But, 
although he blushed and stammered, he was res- 
olute, and when the direct question came she could 
not ignore. So they walked to her home through 
the springtime and the sunshine; the life of one, 
and the warmth of the other in their hearts. 



AN OLD-TIME WIREGRASS FROLIC 

"0/^ Dan Tucker, he got drunk — 

Fell in the fire and kicked out a chunk; 
Red-hot coal got in his shoe — 

Oh, great granny! how the ashes flew! 

Chorus 

'^Then, clear the way for Ole Dan Tucker; 

Come too late to git your supper!" 

There was a great sound of revelry by night. 

Through the poorly weather-boarded cracks of 
the log-cabin the firelight showed, flickering across 
the carpet of wiregrass just outside the low rail 
fence surrounding the yard and silhouetting the 
green pines against the wall of darkness. 

Out through these cracks also, and through the 
open door and the one small window came the 
stirring tune of the fiddle, the tapping of straws, 
and the quick shuffle of nimble feet to the call of 
the cotillion. 

For Jim was giving a party. The crops all in, 
the cane ground, with nothing pressing in work 
until the new year, there was a brief interval of 
feasting and merry-making, in which the dance 

103 



104 Saturday Night Sketches 

predominated. For in those days, nearly all the 
young people and a great many of the older ones 
danced — and thought no harm. 

There was but one room to Jim's house. The 
beds had been taken down; the table moved out, 
and what few chairs he owned ranged back 
against the wall, out of the way. Over by the 
fireplace the fiddlers sat — two of them — and in 
front of them knelt the straw-beaters, straws 
poised between ready fingers. 

No music was paid for then. The hired or- 
chestra was a part of a distant and little known 
city; the country was full of fiddlers of more or 
less merit, and at these "parties" it was not a 
question of who would play, but of who should 
play. The fiddlers furnished their own fiddles, 
and were anxious to take turns at playing. Those 
who did not play, usually beat accompaniment on 
the strings with straws, trimmed from a conven- 
ient broom. 

The day before, some of the girls had come 
over and helped Mrs. Jim clean-up, cook, and 
otherwise prepare; the boys helped Jim put in 
a supply of wood and do the other things neces- 
sary. 

With early candle-light the dancing began. The 
fiddlers tuned up, "plunk-plunk! tung-tungi" bent 
their heads above the instruments, tucked under 
their chins, drew their bows reverently across the 




THE FIDDLERS 



An Old-Time Wiregrass Frolic 105 

strings, and their bodies swayed and their feet 
patted in time to the music. 

"Partners on the floor," called the leader, and 
from their seats around the walls four couples 
arose. "First couple to the right; balance!" and 
youth and maid danced time to the music before 
their opposites. "Swing!" and they joined hands 
and swung around. "Swing your corners!" the 
partners swung the nearest, right and left. "All 
promenade!" partners joined hands and prome- 
naded around to their places. This order was 
repeated by each couple until the four had made 
the circuit. 

"Gents to the right; ladies stand!" "Swing 
or cheat!" and the girl either swung the man danc- 
ing opposite or turned back to her partner. "All 
promenade!" "Ladies to the center, right hands 
across!" and they circled. "Left hand back!" re- 
verse. "Right hand to your partner, balance op- 
posite!" "Swing!" "Balance your partner!" 
"Swing!" "Promenade. All!" "Honor your 
cotillion; seat your partners." 

And so on, with changing couples, changing 
fiddlers, changing form of cotillion, but dancing 
steadily, throughout the night. They never 
seemed to tire. The puncheon floor (split, hewn 
logs) was rough, but they kept time on it, and 
among them were some splendid dancers, male 
and female, and with these, age did not diminish 



io6 Saturday Night Sketches 

ardor. A few mothers who were ideal partners, 
were as much in demand as their grown daugh- 
ters. In the measures of the dance, keeping time 
to the violins, there were many graceful steps. 
Some of the men, young and old, prided them- 
selves on their dancing, and while balancing would 
cut the "double shuffle," the "pigeon wing," and 
their many variations. 

One youth had never learned to dance, but he 
did not know it. He had plenty of music in his 
soul, but none in his heels, and the steps he cut 
under the inspiration of a pretty or graceful part- 
ner would convulse the onlookers with laughter. 
He saw it not, and in blissful ignorance went on 
in the error of his way. 

There was plenty of politeness, but little for- 
mality. One pretty girl, with peach-blossom 
cheeks and a laugh that was as contagious as a 
flea — also one of the best dancers in the room, 
wore a new and pinching shoe. Did she sit with 
the wall-flowers in misery, and lose a night's fun? 
Not she ; dances did not come any too often. Ex- 
cusing herself for a moment, she removed both 
shoes, and danced the remainder of the night in 
her stocking feet, and she danced herself into the 
hearts of many on-looking swains. 

About midnight, Mrs. Jim served a collation 
in the log kitchen, about twenty yards distant from 
the "big" house. For this the girls had been 



An Old-Time Wiregrass Frolic 107 

helping her cook. There were cold boiled pork, 
ham, baked chicken, potato "custards" (they call 
them pies now), tea-cakes, pound-cakes, and other 
good things of that day and generation, to which 
the laughing dancers did ample justice, with the 
appetites of log-rollers. Then back to the danc- 
ing, which had been going on without loss of time. 
Not all the fun in the dancing, either. There 
were times when you sat out "the set" with Her. 
The foolish nothings, the small talk, the half-whis- 
pered confidences. And out at the watershelf, in 
the semi-darkness there was more talk, and fun 
— and some sentiment, of course. 

At last, the night of nights was gone. As the 
morning star arose above the pines Her people 
began to prepare for home, although some danc- 
ers remained until the sun followed the star. The 
old folks had walked on ahead and She, most pre- 
cious of earthly things and sharing in your opinion 
with things celestial, was holding your arm, as you 
started on the all-too-short four-mile walk to Her 
home, while behind the fiddlers sounded, in fare- 
well melody, 

"Cotton-Eyed Joe, with a tune for the South, 
Everywhere I go, I hear his big mouth! 

Cotton-Eyed, Cotton-Eyed, Cotton-Eyed Joe! 
I'd 'a been married twenty years ago. 
If it hadn't 'a been for knock-kneed, Cotton- 
Eyed Joe! 
Knock-kneed, bow-legged, Cotton-Eyed Joe!" 



CAT-FISHING IN THE OLDEN TIME 

"Look out, you've got a bite; let him have it a 
little longer. Now!" 

"Good Lord; get a torch, boys; John's flung a 
catfish over to old man Mauldin'sl" For the 
boy, excited and nervous, had brought up his green 
bay pole with all his strength, and the unlucky 
catfish, on the end of a ten-foot line, had described 
a semi-circle with a swish and fell kerplunk far 
into the bushes behind the fishing party. 

A fire of pine-knots threw a flickering light over 
the scene, weird if sportive. On the narrow strip 
of steep bank between the mass of tangled bushes 
of the swamp in the rear and the sluggish but 
deep stream in front, the group of fishers gath- 
ered. Two old men — one white-haired as Long- 
fellow, the other with heavy beard just beginning 
to show gray; three boys; two approaching man- 
hood, the other the amateur fisher; and two girls, 
in their early teens. 

Along the bank at various points they sat, hold- 
ing poles with lines reaching deep into the black 
waters. Ever and anon, the hooks were gently 
lifted, dangled, and let sink again, tempting the 

io8 



Cat-fishing in the Olden Time 109 

hesitating catfish. The animated and expectant 
countenances, silhouetted in the flickering light, the 
merry voices, the surrounding swamp with its un- 
known and exaggerated dangers, formed a scene 
that would have made the fortune of the artist 
with talent to put it on canvas. 

The bearded man and the Boy, passing that 
way, had stopped over night with the old man's 
family for a few hours' fishing. It was in late 
spring, the water was low, and catfish were bit- 
ing. Before sundown the boys had searched in 
the lowlands for earth-worms for bait. Where 
the tiny mound of fresh-worked dirt showed the 
presence of the worm near the top, they would 
go for them. 

When the earth was carefully blown away, the 
hole the worm had burrowed showed plainly. Not 
a lump of earth must fall in, or the game was lost. 
Then with a clear way, one straw of wiregrass 
was run down the hole, the tender end (that pulled 
from the ground) foremost. In a few moments, 
a few feet away, the worm would begin to come 
out, urged by the tickling of the straw. Mum 
was the word then; the least movement and back 
he would go. When at last he had dragged his 
length — twelve inches or more — the worm was 
dropped into the bait-gourd, and a dozen was 
plenty for a fishing party. 

Before dark the fishers started for the Warrior, 



no Saturday Night Sketches 

the old man carrying his pet pole of cane, the boys 
stopping on the way to gather what llghtwood 
they could carry. For some distance along the 
path through the swamp they found their way, 
then across the creek on a log just wide enough 
for a foothold. At last, beside a small lake, 
where experience had proved the catfish fed, they 
stopped. Just as the shades of night were falling 
the firelight displaced the gathering gloom. 

From the swamp on every side young, slender 
poles were cut and trimmed, lines and hooks at- 
tached, the hooks baited with a piece of worm, 
and carefully let down to within a few Inches of 
the bottom, then gently agitated now and then to 
give the worm the appearance of floating down. 
Soon there was a gentle nibble, the cork (If one 
was used) going under, then a steadier pull, and 
if the fish did not run under a root, he was landed. 

The catfish bit best just at dark; then an inter- 
val for conversation or yarn-spinning, then they 
began biting again. Occasionally perhaps an eel 
came up, with a squeal from the girls, who thought 
It was a snake; but long before the hour of mid- 
night, there was plenty and to spare of the smaller 
catfish, with meat white and delicious, to be fried 
brown and eaten with hot corn-bread washed 
down with black coffee for breakfast; of the lar- 
ger cats to form the center for a big pot of catfish 
stew (a compound of many good things with an 



Cat-fishing in the Olden Time 1 1 1 

epicure's seasoning, sometimes called chowder) 
for the morrow's dinner. 

Then twigs were cut with the right fork, on 
which the catfish were strung as they were gath- 
ered from among the sand and leaves; the bur- 
dens divided between two of the boys; the elder 
led with a torch of pine splinters, that no wan- 
dering moccasin might be stepped on unaware. 
Indian file, they marched along the homeward 
path, the older men ahead, behind the young folks 
trailing, while the boys raised 

''^fVith gun and knapsack, soon we'll go 
Marching away to old Mexico; 
To fight for country we're inclined; 
But our heart's with 'Cindy, left behind." 

Many veterans of the Mexican war were liv- 
ing then and they had brought from field and 
camp with them the songs of the old times, as 
a legacy to their children. 

Of the fishers, but two are living. Long since 
the older ones have gone to rest; the others grew 
to manhood, or to womanhood, married and died; 
those left are now past the age when sport Is 
other than recreation. Still, in memory, we can 
see the group along the bank of the creek. In the 
light of the fire, fishing as earnestly and zealously 
as if the fate of nations and not the morrow's meal 
depended; and lit with the light of youth glow 
the faces. 



A COUNTY SITE REMOVAL ELECTION 

"Every one uv them niggers is mine, and I chal- 
lenge their votes." The speaker was a turpentine 
man, well-dressed, fat, red-faced, and angry. His 
heavy watch-chain across a plethoric stomach rose 
and fell as he breathed his emphatic protest. His 
hearers smiled and went on with their counting. 

It was a county-site removal election, in the days 
when old conditions were changing to new. The 
location of the courthouse had been topographi- 
cally and geographically correct. It stood at the 
intersection of two main intra-state highways, near 
the center of the county, on a watershed eminence. 
But when the railroad came along it missed the 
county-site by three miles, and when the lumber- 
men and naval stores operators followed the iron 
horse and built up small towns along the strips 
of rusty steel, there came a demand for the re- 
moval of the county's headquarters to a point more 
accessible. 

Perhaps this would have been easily done had 
not practically every station, flag or otherwise, in 
the county straightway become a candidate. Of 
course, the old county seat had many friends, but 

112 



A County Site Removal Election 113 

the removalists were largely in the majority. Yet 
all the opponents of removal had to do was quietly 
to play one location against the other, easily win- 
ning because of the rivalry. 

One election was held, and the old county-seat 
won hands down, receiving a large plurality with 
the removal votes divided between half a dozen 
candidates. Then came more agitation, and fin- 
ally a legislative enactment putting all such elec- 
tions two years apart. Already, under the con- 
stitution, the approval of two-thirds of the quali- 
fied voters was required. There was more agita- 
tion, growing into bitterness, until the county was 
divided into warring factions, removal and no 
removal. 

Gradually the railroad town with the largest 
population won friends, until both sides knew that 
the tug of war was at hand. It was a center for 
lumber and naval stores camps, and had an im- 
mense negro vote. Other points on the railroad 
near the county line on either side realized they 
had no chance and for their own convenience fa- 
vored the railroad town with the best show to win. 

Anti-removalists saw what was coming. Real- 
izing that this time removal would probably win, 
they concentrated all their strength against the 
leading candidate. A small station nearest by the 
railroad to the geographical center of the county 
was chosen, and this was backed against the leader. 



114 Saturday Night Sketches 

Petitions were circulated, the ordinary set the 
election day, and the campaign was on. In those 
days there was no registration, and no color line 
at the polls. Whiskey was sold at every cross- 
roads grocery and was used profusely in every 
close election contest. 

The leading town, which we will call Columbia, 
because that was not its name, chartered two spe- 
cial trains for the day, operating one in either 
direction to the county line. 

Report had it that the line was crossed more 
than once, but that is water over the dam. There 
was a band or so, liquor in plenty and voters by 
the hundreds. The anti-removalists ran no spe- 
cial trains to Billville (that is the nickname, not 
the name of the central point), for there was no 
polling place there, but centered their strength at 
the county site. A man could vote anywhere in 
the county, so nearly all the anti-removalists and 
the rivals of the leading town went to the county 
site to vote, and nearly all the removalists went 
to Columbia. 

The polls opened at six a. m. and closed at six 
p. m. A naval stores manufacturer, who was a 
strong Columbia man, had a camp within about 
a mile of the county site, from which he trans- 
ported the gum to the railroad by tram. Nearly 
a score of negroes were at this camp, and the boss 
went out the night before and told them to get 



A County Site Removal Election 115 

ready, that he would have the tram out early next 
morning to carry them to the railroad, where they 
would take the excursion to Columbia. 

But the BlllvUlItes were a little earlier. Some 
time after midnight, with two jugs of whiskey and 
a turn of canned goods and crackers, they went 
out to the camp, brought the negroes In, hid them 
in an old mill shed until morning and the polls 
opened, and voted them for BlllvIUe. 

When the boss came out for the negroes later, 
he found that they had voted, and It was his in- 
dignant protest we quoted above. A smile of 
understanding was all he got. 

The Columbians had the most negroes and also 
the most money, for the lumbermen and naval 
stores men were coining it. But there were also 
lumbermen and naval stores operators on the Bill- 
ville side, and along the river, remote from the 
railroads, the large cotton plantations were cul- 
tivated almost entirely by negroes. Added to this, 
among the friends of BlllvIUe were men who had 
for years controlled the county's pohtics, and were 
past-masters in the game. 

Therefore, It was a case of Greek meet Greek. 

All day the battle of the ballots waged. It must 
not be supposed that It was all one way at either 
of the principal polling stations, for each side had 
workers and watchers at the opponent's strong- 
hold, and representation on the board of man- 



ii6 Saturday Night Sketches 

agers was demanded and granted. Therefore, it 
was safe that the votes would be counted as cast 
— the main thing was to cast them. 

Negro votes were at a premium, and all day 
the market steadily climbed. A lumberman or 
turpentine man would get out all his teams and 
carry his negroes to the precinct in a body. They 
would be kept together, treated to whiskey en 
route and after arriving at the precinct. Dis- 
mounted from the wagons, they were lined up, 
the boss at the head, one of his woodsmen on 
either side to prevent the line being broken, and 
another trusted man, quick with a gun, would 
bring up the rear. 

The vote of his negroes was considered the 
white man's personal perquisite, and to try to 
break in on that marching line meant a scrap, for 
men fought readily and deadly in those days. 
Nevertheless, few lines were voted without an 
attempt being made to break in, and as a conse- 
quence, the day saw many personal encounters 
and some bloodshed, but no fatalities. 

At last night came, as it has a habit of doing, 
and all was over but the counting. And out of 
the new high record vote for the county — even 
exceeding, it was said, the male population of 
voting age — Billville won by twenty-seven votes, 
and removal was lostl 



"HELPING" JIM GRIND CANE 

Jim was grinding his sugar-cane crop and we 
had gone over after supper to help him. 

The help consisted of drinking juice, which he 
had hospitably saved when the last boihng for 
the night was put on; chewing sugar-cane, drink- 
ing skimmings beer and eating syrup foam, mean- 
while watching Jim skim the kettle, chunk up the 
fire and attend to other various duties of cane- 
grinding time. To be sure, we entertained him 
with anecdotes when we thought about it and had 
time, and occasionally when it occurred to us, one 
of the boys would push a log of pine into the fur- 
nace mouth, or replenish the fires on the scaf- 
folds. But usually our "help" consisted in aiding 
Jim to reduce the visible supply of raw material, 
thereby enabling him to finish quicker. 

The light from the furnace, also from pine 
knots on low scaffolds made of boards and cov- 
ered with earth, one on each side of the furnace, 
flickered on the animated faces of half a dozen 
youths and as many maids, not to mention one or 
two men of mature years, who were Jim's real 
assistants. To the rear of us glistened the pol- 

117 



ii8 Saturday Night Sketches 

ished Iron rollers of the sugar-cane mill, and a 
little further off the dark green and stately pines 
formed a background. Above the blue sky of 
early winter, thick with stars; surrounding us, a 
wall of opaque darkness. 

The mill was a crude affair, homemade except 
the rollers. These were of iron, set in a frame 
of hewn pine timbers, their pressure regulated 
with wooden wedges, driven dove-tailed and called 
"keys." The mill was turned by a long lever, 
formed from a small pine selected after much 
search, with just the right curve to cross the cap- 
piece of the long roller and reach near enough 
the ground to hitch a horse to. In the lower tim- 
ber into which the rollers were set was mortised 
two small trenches, and down these the cane juice 
ran to an up-ended barrel, set for its reception. 
A covering of coarse cloth served to strain out 
foreign substances. 

It was a treadmill job for a horse or mule, 
and even the best natured of them dreaded it. 
Around in a circle they walked all day, perhaps 
driven by a child walking behind, or urged on by 
an occasional shout or hurled pumace. Feeding 
the mill was the one thing that prevented cane 
grinding from being a time of joy to the home 
boy. But as regularly as the horse walked, all 
day long, one after another, the cane must be 
fed into the mill, and on a cold morning, with 



"Helping" Jim Grind Cane 119 

frost or icicles on the cane, it was no pleasant 
job. Many times would the feeder be obliged to 
call for respite while, with smoke-blacked cheeks 
and dripping nose, he hurried to the nearest fire 
to thaw out his numbed fingers. 

Next in unpleasantness was the job of keeping 
the feeder supplied with cane, something which 
provoked no small amount of talk between the 
principals, especially if they were brothers. And 
with the latter task went the duty of bearing off 
the pumace (the remains of the cane after the 
juice was extracted) , which was carried by arm- 
fuls and dumped into a pile perhaps to be hauled 
later to carpet the horse-lot. 

The furnace where the juice was cooked was 
as crude as the mill. All but the iron kettle home- 
made. The furnace was made of clay, kneaded 
into cones and these laid in layers, given time to 
harden. To construct a furnace which would 
stand, bear the weight of the kettle and also 
"draw" was no small art, and only about one man 
in a community could do it. The furnaces were 
constructed in many patterns, some with opening 
at one end and chimney at the other; others with 
the opening for wood beside the chimney, the 
flames making a circle. To build one of these 
was considered as great a feat then as the con- 
struction of a wireless outfit now. 

When sufficient juice was obtained, it was 



I20 Saturday Night Sketches 

poured into the kettle and a fire started. As soon 
as the juice began to simmer, it was necessary 
to skim it. This was done with a skimmer made 
of a tin plate, perforated with nail-holes, and 
nailed on to the sloping end of a blackgum pole 
which served as a handle. On the diligent use 
of these skimmers depended the quality of the 
syrup. Two of these skimmers were necessary, 
and a third implement was a "cooler" made from 
a tin pan, perforated with larger holes than the 
skimmer, and also attached to a gum handle. 
Occasionally the fire would be too hot, and the 
juice would threaten to boil over. Then the skim- 
mer was laid aside and the cooler came into use. 
As the juice was skimmed, the scum was poured 
into a keg. In a day or so this fermented, and 
skimmings beer was the product. Given time to 
harden, like cider, it would "make drunk come," 
and tradition says a good grade of rum could be 
distilled from it. 

When the boiling juice reached that beautiful 
red-gold color indicating syrup, frequent tests 
were made by dipping the skimmer, holding it up 
and letting the juice cool as it ran off the inverted 
rim. Bubbles leaping to the surface of the boil- 
ing liquid were unfailing signs of maturity. When 
the boiling was ready to come off, things got busy. 
Then Jim needed help. The boiling syrup was 
dipped with a big, long-handled gourd into a cedar 



"Helping" Jim Grind Cane 121 

tub or "piggin," then poured into a trough hewn 
from a cypress log and mounted on legs. The 
boiling syrup was strained through a piece of cloth 
as it was poured in. As Jim dipped the syrup 
while assistants held gourd or piggin on the other 
side stood two men with a tub of juice. When 
the last of the syrup was up, the word was given 
and the juice poured in — hurriedly, for fear the 
hot kettle would burst. Then the work of boil- 
ing was all to do over again. 

It required longer to boil the juice than to grind 
it — besides, the mill had to work first; therefore, 
while the cane mill was started at daylight, it was 
necessary to keep the kettle at work until far into 
the night. It was to this night vigil, perhaps on 
the same idea that young people went to "sit up" 
with the sick, that the neighborhood gathered to 
"help" Jim after supper. 

And a merry crowd it was ; Jim at the furnace, 
skimmer in hand, enjoying the fun as much as the 
young folks. Games were played in the firelight; 
we drank juice, with much laughing and a few 
pranks in the semi-darkness of the mill; we sat 
in front of the furnace fire and chewed cane and 
told stories, many of them ghostly; we drank the 
half sweet beer and feared not the consequences; 
we constructed tiny paddles and ate the foam from 
the syrup in the trough. 

Did you ever feed warm, yellow syrup foam, 



122 Saturday Night Sketches 

almost candy, with a cane peel paddle to a pair 
of red and laughing lips, and then lick the paddle? 
If you didn't, you have missed something. 

Nearly always we would have a candy pulling 
and perhaps a dance on the last night of the cane 
grinding (inappropriately called "sugar boiling" 
by those who know no better). But sufficient for 
this night were the good things thereof, those 
things which belong to youth and the hey-day of 
life — the testing of the harvest by the lips of life's 
springtime. 

At last the boiling was off, the syrup and juice 
covered with handy cowhides against dew or a 
possible rain; the furnace fires drawn, and Jim 
gone to a well-earned rest. But for his late assist- 
ants, the best of the night was coming — the walk 
home through the wiregrass beneath the starry 
skies. Her arm tucked in yours — with perhaps 
just a little more of her weight than absolutely 
necessary, as she snuggled closer when a screech- 
owl called, or an alarmed partridge whirred up 
from beside the path. You were a monarch then, 
with life and the fullness thereof before you. 

In after years, the familiar sight of the grind- 
ing mill or the smoking furnace; even the smell of 
boiling syrup would bring to you scenes of years 
far gone when the sweetness of cane grinding time^ 
its open hospitality, its wholesome good-fellow- 
ship, but typified the sweetness of Life in its youth. 



THE OLD WASH-HOLE "" 



"Look out, boys; here goes a good 'un!" 

The exclamation awoke the Boy, just in time 
to see his older brother, standing on the edge of 
the mutual bed, the sheets wrapped around him, 
dive head-foremost to the middle of the floor. 

The noise awoke the family; the brother was 
awake when he hit. He had been dreaming of 
Sunday afternoon, and the wash-hole. 

This was down on the little creek, called a 
"branch," a mile and a half across the wiregrass 
through the pines. A curve in the stream formed 
a half circle, and the eastern bank a bluff. In 
those days, the South Georgia streams did not 
dry up in the summer, and this "wash-hole" (no; 
it was not called a swimming-pool in those days 
of few words and primal things) was just deep 
enough to afford a short swim, without danger. 

Saturdays, or Sunday afternoons, or perhaps 
some time during the week at the noon hour when 
the work was not pushing and the fathers were 
taking a nap, the settlement boys congregated. 
There was a race between first arrivals as to 
which could disrobe quickest, and running out on 

123 



124 Saturday Night Sketches 

the log, one end of which extended over the water, 
dive into the cooling depths. Next, and then 
next, until all were in. Then the races for either 
end, the water fights, and the mud battles, in 
which latter enough grime was accumulated to 
make another swim a necessary pleasure. 

In the shallow waters the smaller boys who 
had not learned to swim stood, jumping up and 
down, or dipping their heads, or perhaps attempt- 
ing the first timorous strokes in the art which so 
often saves life. Unluckily the one from among 
these who came within reach of one of the swim- 
mers; a ducking, a sand rubbing, even a playful 
pretense to throw him out into deep water, fol- 
lowed. 

But it was all in fun, and healthful fun. There 
were no bath-tubs, no artificial swimming-pools in 
those days. While the weather was cold, the 
only ablution the youthful body got was what the 
watchful maternal eye made necessary; but when 
the hot days came, the waters looked so cool and 
tempting that despite the paternal admonition and 
mother's anxiety, enough baths were accumulated 
to carry through the next winter. 

When we hear so much about sanitation and 
its kindred, we think of the old wash-hole, and 
skepticism is pardonable; for the youth of that 
day who made healthy, hardy, and vigorous men, 
got along with mighty little washing after they 



The Old Wash-Hole 125 

got out from under the mother's hand — except 
in the summer-time. And we knew nothing of 
contagion, infection, blood-poison, or similar 
"boogers" of a later day. 

Uncle Johnny Ford's field fence came down 
near the creek and wash-hole. He had many 
cattle, and in the spring penned them, afterwards 
planting the rich, cow-penned land in sweet pota- 
toes. In these potato vines grew watermelons we 
have never seen equaled. As the boys went to 
the creek, they passed the melon-patch and as all 
such things were free, each got a melon. 

Into the water these were thrown, and for a 
time the swimmers used them as buoys, swimming 
with them from one side to the other. Then, 
when a melon was cool, out to the bluff it was car- 
ried, bumped across the log and burst, and its 
red, juicy heart gouged out by ready hands. Talk 
about sterilized forks and individual drinking- 
cups I No one ever tasted melons like these, and 
nobody ever was made sick by them. 

Then back to the water, more play, and anoth- 
er melon eaten. About the time repletion was 
reached, some boy started things by "skeeting" 
seed — pressing the slick seed between the thumb 
and finger, until it catapulted against another's 
face. Then some one would throw a handful of 
melon, another a piece of rind, and the battle 
was on I Wonder is they could stand so much 



126 Saturday Night Sketches 

and not get hurt or angry, but their hides were 
tough and anger meant a fight, and fighting was 
not fun. Then another race, to see which could 
be dressed and ready first. In this, the barefoots 
had a great advantage. 

The shades of night alone drove us home, with 
tell-tale wet hair, to which unusual zeal in dis- 
patching the evening's chores was sure to call at- 
tention. 



WITH THE RITES OF THE ORDER 

''''Unveil thy bosom, silent tomb, 

Take this new treasure to thy trust: 
And give these sacred relics room 
To slumber in the silent dust." 

About the family cemetery clustered a small 
grove of blackjack oaks and scrub pines, sur- 
mounting a small hill. Around a partly filled 
grave, on which a few summer suns and rains 
had fallen, a group of solemn-faced men stood. 
Their voices, as they raised the hymn, were joined 
from the surrounding crowd. 

Nearby, on the green wiregrass, a group of 
women sat and wept, for the father, son, and 
brother had gone ; around them gathered children, 
whose inquiring eyes did not yet comprehend the 
orphan's bereavement. Nearer the grave clus- 
tered the close male relatives of the dead, with 
handkerchiefs to their eyes. Standing barehead- 
ed in the August sunshine, or grouped in conven- 
ient shades, were hundreds of friends of the man 
who was gone ; many of whom had journeyed far 
to lend their presence to the solemn rites by 
which his fellow-members bade an earthly fare- 

127 



128 Saturday Night Sketches 

well to one of their order who had ever been 
faithful to its precepts and zealous for its weal. 

Those were days of magnificent distances and 
the lodge to which the deceased belonged had 
members over a territory covering more than a 
day's journey. When his death came, abrupt as 
a cataclasm, there was no time for warning; the 
embalmer's art was to that section unknown, so 
nature's laws were obeyed and the body laid to 
rest; a portion of the grave left unfilled, and a 
day set when his order should gather and pay to 
his remains the last tribute. This was the day. 

From many ways and by many means they had 
come — the man on horseback, with a day's feed 
for man and beast in his saddle-bags ; in the horse- 
cart, the father riding the animal, the family 
grouped carefully over the axle to avoid a spill; 
in the slow and humble ox-wagon, and not a few, 
afoot. Few, very few were the buggies, in that 
day emblematic of wealth and luxury. 

In the auditorium of the big, square-framed 
court house on an adjoining hill they had gath- 
ered, and then by twos, the tiler with drawn 
sword at the head, the stewards with their rods 
of office, the chaplain with his Holy Book, the 
other Insignias of the order in their proper places, 
the members in full regalia, marched down the 
wide staircase, across the intervening vale, to 
the grave that waited upon the hill. Awe-inspir- 



With the Rites of the Order 129 

ing, with the solemnity of the mysterious unknown 
they appeared to the Boy, gazing wide-eyed and 
pale faced, as they passed. 

At the grave, the ranks opened, and passing 
beneath the crossed rods the brethren took their 
places in the circle; at the head the master, a 
patriarch of commanding figure and flowing beard, 
who led the ritual, supported by his officials, stand- 
ing on either side. 

Briefly they told of their love for the one who 
was gone; of the vacancy in their ranks and of 
the gap in their circle; of his passing as a re- 
minder of the uncertainty of life and the cer- 
tainty of death; of the emptiness and delusion of 
things earthly. 

Into the grave was deposited the apron, em- 
blem of innocence, and the badge of his order. 
With it bitter-sweet memories from each in the 
circle of the many times he had worn it; of the 
soul-trial with which it had been won; of the dig- 
nity with which it had been borne, as a trust 
sacred. 

On the apron was laid his white glove, sym- 
bol of fidelity; of his faithful service, his loyal 
observance and of his love for his brethren. Also 
for their testimony of the fealty of the circle to 
the one who was gone. As it was laid away with 
him, came memories of the many times when he 
had proved that fidelity was not an empty word. 



130 Saturday Night Sketches 

The grand honors were given, and as the circle 
moved around the grave, each member dropped 
a spring of arborvitae — evergreen, emblematic of 
eternal life and the immortality of the soul. A 
sweet thought; a fitting tribute. 

Most solemn and impressive of all came the 
last parting. Into the grave each brother poured 
a handful of dust, thus finally consigning all that 
was mortal of the departed one to the earth from 
whence it came. But, glorious hope; at the same 
time pointing the right hand heavenward, in hope 
and pledge to meet again in the world where there 
is no death. 

And those who stood and watched felt spiritual- 
ized; as men made better by this glimpse of an- 
other Hfe; the bereaved comforted by the hope 
of reunion; even those drawn by casual curiosity 
impressed with the dignity and solemn earnest- 
ness, as well as with the deep religious lesson of 
the ceremony. For the order is one as old as 
history, and the words and symbols with which 
it bade earthly farewell to this obscure member 
in a land but little removed from the wilderness, 
had been used at the funerals of potentates, and 
emperors, and men mighty in the realms of war, 
church, and letters. 

As the circle closed, the vacant place was filled 
and the brethren marched away, the declining 
sun gave warning that the homeward journey was 



fFith the Rites of the Order 131 

long. Teams were hitched, farewells were said, 
and mother and widow, children, friends, and 
brethren of the order left him to sleep alone until 
the trumpet shall wake the dead, to assemble in 
the grand lodge of Eternity, where the Master 
of all presides. 



CAL TURNER AND THE BLACK RUNNER 

Cal Turner was afraid of snakes. 

In this he in no way differed from the aver- 
age barefoot boy in South Georgia forty years 
ago, but Cal added nervous frills to the ordinary 
fear. When he was fishing, if he saw a snake, he 
jumped at every crooked stick for the balance of 
the day, and the savor of wooing the nimble pike 
and hungry red-eyes, was gone. His associates 
knew this weakness, and they played upon it to the 
extent of many boyish pranks and practical jokes. 

But this fear of Cal's was acquired, not inher- 
ited. In early boyhood he played with snakes. 
It was one of his jokes to take a garter snake 
or a chicken snake by the tail and chase a bevy 
of squealing girls around the yard with it. Or he 
would swing the reptile around his head a few 
times and with a quick jerk, as if manipulating 
a whip, pop its head off. How Cal's familiarity 
was changed to fear, is the story. 

Cal was siding corn in the big field across the 
creek. The day was hot, and Cal munched his 
tobacco and ruminated as he followed the scooter, 
attached to a grasshopper stock and a deliberate 

132 



Col Turner and the Black Runner 133 

mule, up and down the long rows. There was the 
fishing coming next Saturday afternoon, and only 
a few weeks off, preaching over at Booger Bot- 
tom, with the Johnson gals certain to be there. 
The thought of Cynthia Johnson, in her blue fig- 
ured calico dress and pink sunbonnet, brought a 
smile as the mule reached the end of the long row 
and turned from habit up into the corner of the 
worm-rail fence. 

A rustling, like the swish of a submarine per- 
iscope, caused Cal to glance over in the fence 
jamb and there, from under the bottom rail, the 
head and about six inches of a black runner 
showed, the red tongue licking out at Cal spite- 
fully. Nov/, the black runner is not at all classed 
among the fighting snakes, and often had Cal 
chased one to its hole, or caught it unaware and 
snapped off its head. This one was evidently a 
giant of its species, but it was with the feeling of 
chastising an impudent coon that Cal picked up 
a small pine knot and hurled it at the runner's 
head. 

The missile went true. Perhaps the blow dazed 
the snake; perhaps, due to the hot weather, it had 
a brainstorm; more probably under the worm rail 
fence its spring eggs were hatching. In any tvtnt,, 
to Cal's alarm, instead of running away, the snake 
came at him with open mouth. 

If the runner wouldn't run, Cal would, and 



134 Saturday Night Sketches 

just as the reptile, coming within easy reach, made 
a lunge at him, Cal turned and flew. In those 
days, few boys under twenty wore pants while 
at work. Cal did not and his only garment was 
a homespun shirt, reaching to his knees. 

As he whirled to run, and the snake struck, 
the switching tail of this shirt was the only thing 
in reach and into this, near the hem, one long 
tooth of the runner caught — and hung, for the 
cloth was honest and strong. 

Cal felt the cold snake touch his calf and with 
a yell of horror he "lit a shuck" down the long 
corn-row, along the furrow he had just plowed. 
Because it could not get loose the black runner, 
over three feet long, trailed behind. That the 
snake couldn't help this, Cal did not know; he 
thought the runner had severed diplomatic rela- 
tions and was trying to commit an overt act. 

His breath growing short, Cal glanced behind 
him — the snake was coming along the furrow, like 
a black streak, right at his heels I With another 
yell, Cal put on a burst of speed, the sweat pour- 
ing down his face and body in streams under the 
May sunshine. 

Thinking later that surely he had distanced the 
runner in a fair test of speed, Cal looked behind. 
There was the snake, not an inch the loser! This 
time Cal went down for it, with every atom of 
strength that tense muscles and frightened mind 



Cal Turner and the Black Runner 135 

could give. His bare toes dug into the freshly 
plowed ground, throwing behind him a shower of 
rattling pebbles and a cloud of dust. 

It was nearly half a mile across that field, and 
soon Cal's breath was coming in panting gasps, 
and from sheer weariness he slowed up. As he 
slackened speed, the snalce dropped until it touched 
his ankle. No other stimulus was needed, and 
once more Cal threw her into the high clutch and 
set his teeth for the homestretch. 

Exhaustion was coming when into his dimming 
vision came the rail fence at the end of the rowl 
Maybe he could make it? Was the snake still 
following? A backward glance proved that it 
was, and with one more supreme effort he made 
for the fence and safety. 

When he struck the fence, Cal intended to 
climb on top and then tell the runner to go to. 
But he was too weak to climb. The best he could 
do was a running jump, by which he struck the 
two top rails, knocked them off, and with them 
fell on the other side, face downward. 

On the back of his bare legs the snake fell, and 
when he felt its cold body on him, Cal gave up 
and for the first and only time in his life fainted. 
In some way, the runner extricated itself, and 
when Cal came to was gone. 

After that, Cal played no more pranks with 
snakes. 



"BIG COURT" IN THE OLDEN TIME 

Hark, from the court, the sherif's call: 

Jurors attend the cry, 
Come lawyers now, into the hall — 

Where you shall shortly lie. 

The courthouse was a square building, set in 
a public square that was the nucleus of the town. 
People were on the square in those days. It was 
a two-story building, substantially constructed of 
wood. The lower floor was divided into four sec- 
tions by two cross halls, east to west — north to 
south — cool in the summer and preventing con- 
gestion when crowds were on hand. Up stairs, 
all the space was taken by the main courtroom 
except a room each for the grand and petit juries. 
Around the square were catalpa trees, and a few 
hundred yards away, in a hollow, was the jail. 
Likewise it was a two-story structure, built of 
hewn pine timbers, the lower floor a dungeon, to 
be entered only by means of a trap door in the 
second-floor. 

Around the square were grouped two or three 
grocery stores and a number of dwellings, the lat- 

136 



"Biff Court" in the Olden Time 137 

ter occupied by the county officers, or farmers 
whose lands lay near by. 

The presiding judge, the solicitor-general and 
the members of the bar traveled on horseback, 
for there were no railroads and very few roads 
then. The first two and the most prominent 
among the lawyers were veritable circuit-riders, 
for about three months in the spring and an equal 
length of time in the fall. The terms of court 
never lasted longer than one week for each term 
in a county and there were only two terms a year. 
Called or special terms were unheard of. The 
judge, solicitor and members of the bar (except 
the usual resident lawyer, one to each county 
seat) , usually traveled in company, and the rounds 
of the circuit were enlivened by many anecdotes 
and amusing experiences. 

To practice at the bar a man had to be a law- 
yer in those days. And the judge was necessarily 
a man of deep learning and wide experience. He 
had to judge the law, therefore know the law, 
for there were no elaborate libraries and court 
reports then at each county seat for reference. 
The judge usually knew his business, as attested 
by the fact that there were so few appeals, and 
when there was, a small number of reversals. 

"Big Court" was a festal occasion for the com- 
ty seat village. For weeks preparations were ac- 
tive. The house, always spotless, was thoroughly 



138 Saturday Night Sketches 

gone over, from steps to roof; the floors fresh 
sanded, the chimney facings blue-clayed, the yards 
clean-swept, the cedar water-buckets and the drink- 
ing-gourds scoured and sunned. Hogs were 
killed, a beef butchered, chickens by the dozen 
penned and fattened; eggs and butter saved up, 
ginger-cakes, pound-cakes, turn-overs and potato 
custards cooked to feed an army. 

Every house within two miles of the courthouse 
was a boarding-house, limited only by its capacity 
to spread mattresses in every room, including the 
dining-room, and on the broad piazzas where 
the only room each sleeper was entitled to in re- 
turn for his quarter was as much as he could 
lie in sardine-wise. The best that could be done 
for the judge was two to a bed and he usually 
shared with the solicitor-general. 

There was big eating and much coffee-drinking 
for the week, and the price was only a quarter. 
Few boarding-houses made money, for the visi- 
tor usually regarded the quarter as a tax and tried 
to get the worth of his money — and succeeded. 

Not all the attendants on "Big Court" boarded. 
The jurors usually rode out a few miles at night 
to the home of an acquaintance, but the great 
mass of the attendants camped. They came pre- 
pared with wagons, rations and bedding, and 
around the nightly campfires there was much yarn- 
spinning and merry-making. Those from one sec- 



"Bi0 Court'* in the Olden Time 139 

tion of the county would usually camp together. 
Many fights, always "fist and skull," enlivened the 
camp. 

Not one-third of the attendants at "Big Court" 
had business in the courthouse. They were the 
great semi-annual business gatherings. Had a 
merchant in a neighboring city business with a 
man, he went to "Big Court" and found him. 
They were semi-annual clearance weeks, when con- 
tracts were made or filled, accounts opened or 
settled, and after commercial fertilizers came into 
use, note -taking occasions of spring and note-pay- 
ing times in the fall. The newspaper men also 
made their semi-annual visits to the counties then, 
sat under a convenient shade-tree and wrote re- 
ceipts for appreciative and prompt-paying sub- 
scribers. In these records the horse-swappers 
must not be forgotten, for horse-swapping and 
horse-trading were going on all the time, so long 
as court was in session. 

The busiest men were probably the storekeep- 
ers. There were rarely more than three of these, 
and usually only two. The stores were oblong 
buildings, a row of shelving along one side con- 
taining a miscellaneous stock of dry-goods, no- 
tions and a few canned goods — the variety was 
not great then, cove oysters being the great fa- 
vorite. Across the end was a counter mid-waist 
high and behind this the bar. Every grocery store 



140 Saturday Night Sketches 

had Its bar in those days, even though the stock 
consisted of only a jug each of corn and rye. The 
most elaborate had only a little more variety 
with much greater quantity and beer (lager then) 
was counted only a drink for sick folks, women 
and preachers — and these not "hardshells." 

The jfiddlers were there In force, as well as 
the horse-swappers, and from morning to night 
and far Into the night, the violins were going. 
Seated on the dry-goods counter (the other was 
busy) with an admirer to beat straws, there was 

"Hitched my horse to the grocery rack, 
He got loose, and broke his hackl 
Susie! And what are you about, Susie!" 

Until tired ears wondered If they never wearied. 

Inside the big, square building, the legal grind 
went on. Not monotonous, for there were llght- 
nlng-llke flashes of wit, and speeches that were 
master-pieces of eloquence, often the most tri- 
vial cause bringing out a pyrotechnlc-like display. 
For many of the lawyers of that day were the 
statesmen of the next, and the veterans In the 
service, men who carried the scars and laurels 
of many hundred legal battles. 

Great men they, of an age that was great. An 
age when an empire, that of the South, was In 
the making and whose people were strong be- 
cause to the pioneer, strength is essential. To 



"Biff Court" in the Olden Time 141 

call a roll of the lawyers attending "Big Court" 
then would be to repeat a list of many men who 
have made South Georgia great. In themselves 
disciples of the written law, they were a part of 
the great scheme of nature: 

"That very law which moulds a tear, 
And bids it trickle from its source. 
That law preserves the earth a sphere 
And guides the planets in their course." 



THE COMMUNITY COTTON PICKING 

^''Lucinda is a pretty girl; 

I've known her all my life. 
And if ever I get married, 
Lucinda 'II he my wife." 

The October sun was just peeping above the 
distant pines and in the clear air of early fall, 
the Boy's song rang, as he hurried to Jim's. 

Jim's cotton field was white for the harvest 
and his neighbors had gathered to pick it for 
him. Six families of them, from the mother and 
father to the baby in arms (the latter to spend 
much of the day on a quilt spread in a conven- 
ient shade) were there. Two or three of the 
older women would stay with Mrs. Jim to aid in 
the preparation of the midday meal but all the 
others went to the cotton field. Mayhap it's a 
case of cause and effect, but we did not see so 
many women of frail health in those days and 
they usually did a liberal share of a man's work. 

The dew was still on the cotton when they 
opened the swagging gate and entered the field. 
There were only ten acres of it — what Jim could 

142 



The Community Cotton Picking 143 

cultivate after providing supplies for himself and 
family — and the sloping hillside was white. Down 
by the branch was a half-acre patch of sugar cane, 
its leaves rustling in the autumn breeze, ready for 
the sugar mill later. With the exception of the 
evergreen bays and a few others of their kind, 
the foliage on the trees in the small stream had 
taken on the brilliant autumn colors, the grass in 
the field was dead and the tinge of early fall 
everywhere. 

Rapidly the pickers separated into groups, each 
picker taking two rows and the mother took the 
youngest child large enough to pick with her. Jim 
in his capacity of host and general director, dis- 
tributed the cotton-baskets at convenient points. In 
separating personal propinquity as usual predomi- 
nated. Two older men would take adjoining rows 
and talk crops or politics or tell stories as they 
picked. Two mothers would do the same, swap- 
ping neighborhood gossip and occasionally stop- 
ping in a shade or fence corner to pass the snuff 
box for a congenial dip, and an undisturbed social 
chat. There were always two boys with some 
reputation as swift pickers to start a race, which 
lasted intermittently throughout the day, and al- 
ways of course, the youth and maiden, to whom 
the semi-privacy of the cotton field gave golden 
opportunity for those interchanges of silly noth- 
ings styled nonsense by the older ones but which 



144 Saturday Night Sketches 

have so much to do with the mating and perpetu- 
ation of the human race. 

In a clean and neatly fitting dress of brown 
checked homespun, her face deep-hid in a sunbon- 
net of pink calico She summed up for him all that 
was lovable and desirable as he occasionally 
straightened up for a word or two as he picked 
the locks, one at a time, from a refractory boll, 
his eyes resting hungrily and admiringly on Her. 
Soon she would stop also, never looking at him 
direct but with those fleeting glances that see all 
and reveal so little. Of course he would finish 
his rows first and would always help her out; She 
would hang back a little if necessary unless in 
some jesting wager a race was on. Many matches 
were made in the cotton-fields of those days. 

As the cotton was picked from the bolls, as fast 
as the hand was full it was dropped into a big, 
white homespun sack, swung from the shoulder. 
When this sack was full it was emptied into the 
basket, which was packed as long as the cotton 
could be trampled into it. Then it was carried 
on a man's shoulder to the wagon which waited 
at the end of the row and when the wagon was in 
turn filled, it was carried to the house and the cot- 
ton usually piled on the piazza of the home or 
in a shedroom. 

At noon, tired and very hungry, the pickers 
gathered under the big oak where the table was 



The Community Cotton Picking 145 

spread, laden with good things. The first potato 
custards of the new crop; cuts from a quarter of 
the last beef of the season; the last of the sum- 
mer preserves — the late crop of speckled peas 
boiled with old bacon — and always the chicken — 
in a half dozen forms, and all of them good. 

As there had been hard picking, there was also 
hard eating, for of indigestion we knew nothing, 
and of hearty appetites we were not ashamed. 
To be sure, when the eyes of the boys were on 
them, some of the girls would blushingly lift a 
pea at a time on a fork — but when the boys were 
gone they would gather around the pot by the 
fireplace and shovel them in with a basting-spoon. 

Dinner over, perhaps there was more courting 
by the tall sweep and the pomegranate bush out 
at the well; gossip and chat by the older folks, 
and then back to the job again, for Jim's field 
must be cleaned by night. And it was. 

Perhaps next day, or some time during the 
week, Jim would join the others at the field of 
a neighbor, and so in turn, until the work was 
repaid. But cotton was not the purely commer- 
cial article that it is to-day. We did not pay 
the profits of the crop to shiftless negroes to 
pick it and spend half our time hauling them 
to and from town — for there were no towns close 
by, and few negroes. 

The harvesting of the cotton crop was made 



146 Saturday Night Sketches 

the occasion for a social gathering, just as with 
pulling the fodder, boiling the syrup, the log- 
rolling, house-raising, and many other tasks that 
could be done better by the community than the 
individual. These "workings" as they were called 
relieved the monotony and loneliness of country 
life; brought the people closer together and fa- 
cilitated work, for they gave to the task a zip 
and enthusiasm lacking even with the most in- 
dustrious when alone. The cotton itself entered 
more into the home life, for out of each crop was 
saved the year's supply for knitting thread, or 
perhaps for the loom. 

Hard work and crude people, perhaps you may 
say. But they had something we sadly lack in 
these days when money is the one great objective, 
and we rarely see our neighbor except on Sunday 
— if we go to church. 



CUTTING A BEE TREE 

"Wop!" a ball of fire hit the Boy on the jaw. 

As his hand flew to the injured spot an electric 
current bit his tongue from the wad of honey- 
comb he had just crammed in his mouth; at the 
same time a touch of flame on his bare ankle 
caused him to jump as he howled. He beat a 
precipitate retreat to a safe distance. The savor 
had gone out of wild honey for the time being. 

A group of men bent hurriedly over the fallen 
pine, one chopping into the hollow with an axe; 
another holding the smudge of smoke, the others 
taking out the comb honey and putting it into 
pans, cedar piggins, wide-mouthed gourds or other 
handy receptacles. 

At a distance considered safe a group of women 
watched and waited; nearer by the dogs and boys 
ventured, only to get stung sooner or later, as 
venturers do. A fire of lightwood-knots illumined 
the scene and threw the surrounding forest into 
background, like a dark green wall. Under foot, 
the carpet of wiregrass and near the workers at 
the fallen pine a small fire, smudged with pine 
boughs, sent out a cloud of bluish-white smoke to 

147 



148 Satwday Night Sketches 

keep the bees in check. 

Finding a bee tree was an expert's job. With 
the bloom of spring, the bees were found drawing 
their store of honey from the flowers in the yard 
— the honeysuckle, the yellow jasmine, pinks and 
bridal-wreath; along the edges of the branches 
from the dogwood, wild honeysuckle and gall- 
berry. 

Here a trail was often taken. Another place 
to find them easily was where they sucked mud 
on the bank of the drying stream. 

Uncle George was a man of patience, and pa- 
tience was required to trail bees. To be sure 
sometimes a tree was found by accident while 
walking through the pine woods, but this was not 
often the case, and sometimes a supposed find 
turned out to be only a nest of yellow-jackets. 

Where the bees were sucking the flowers in the 
yard a bait was set; ingredients of this varied, 
something containing honey or sugar was a favor- 
ite. The bees would come to suck; gather their 
store and then take a straight course for the hive. 
This course was carefully noted. Perhaps a little 
flour would be put on the bait, and the first bee 
to whiten itself would be timed and thus the dis- 
tance to the hive judged. Once the course was 
settled the bait was left, and along the course the 
watchers would take stations noting the bees as 
they passed. Finally the hive would be located, 



Cutting a Bee Tree 149 

far up in the boll of a hollow pine. But the work 
required a sharp eye, a knowledge of bees' habits, 
and infinite patience. 

Once located, the tree was marked and this 
mark made it as much the property of the dis- 
coverer as a mark and brand on cattle. Then it 
was left for the bees to complete their store. 

In early summer invitations were sent out to 
the bee tree cutting. The time was usually set 
for some Saturday night, for that day was a part 
holiday, and night preferably because the bees 
would not be so active. 

The folks came at early candle light, a fire was 
built, and the axe-men went to work. One on 
either side, they soon had the tree almost ready 
to fall; then about the point it was calculated 
would be close to the fallen hive, the smudge fire 
was built. 

With a crash the tree came down, and un- 
watched dogs rushed in, thinking it a coon or 
squirrel hunt. They soon learned better. The 
men hurried up just as the bees, recovering from 
the shock of fall, angry and buzzing, came out. 
Rags were fired, and with the smudge from the 
pine-boughs the bees were driven back or out of 
the way of the workers. 

The honey lay in long, golden layers of soft 
comb up and down the hollow. These were cut 
loose and lifted out, strange to say few of the 



150 Saturday Night Sketches 

men actually at work getting stung. But woe to 
the bystander or the forager, for such fell ready 
victims. The bees were mad as the robbed have 
a right to be, and they considered not where they 
struck, but struck hard. The bee can only sting 
once, but that is no consolation, as he leaves the 
sting hanging in the wound, and has plenty of 
willing helpers. It was no uncommon sight to see 
one of the wounded going for help to remove a 
stinger from the cheek or some place not so handy 
to reach. 

Dock Reynolds wouldn't wear his collar but- 
toned. His wife talked but Dock left his shirt 
open just the same. Dock was leaning over lift- 
ing out a big chunk of comb, when he suddenly 
straightened up; then humped over, threw one 
hand to his back and the other to his stomach. 
Then despite the women close by, he came out 
of his shirt. And Cynthia had to hunt for the 
stingers. 

After the honey was gathered, the bees were 
left to buzz around the ruins of their home and 
arrange to start another, while all went to Uncle 
George's house near by. The women-folks had 
gone ahead and before we arrived the waffle irons 
were hot. One or two of the neighbors had 
brought extra irons along, and by the time the 
men and boys applied tobacco juice to the burn- 
ing stings, washed up and combed, a big pile of 



Cutting a Bee Tree 151 

hot waffles was waiting. 

Did you ever eat hot waffles and wild honey 
fresh from the comb? Then you do not need any 
talking about it; if you did not, it is no use wast- 
ing words on you. 



FRIDAY AFTERNOON IN THE OLD- 
TIME SCHOOL 

'Toz/ s-c-a-r-c-e-l-y can expect, a l-i-t-t-l-e boy like 
me; 
Put out h-e-r-e where all can see — 
To make a s-p-e-e-c-h as well as those 
Who wear a l-a-r-g-er kind of clothes." 

Panting with embarrassment, the speaker 
drawled out the doggerel, shifting his weight 
meanwhile from one bare foot to the other, oc- 
casionally scratching the calf of the right leg with 
the nail of the left big toe. He had come out 
when the teacher called his name, head hanging 
and shame-faced, and blushing like a freckled 
pumpkin as the eyes of the assemblage turned on 
him. Tow-headed, and his garments simple in 
the extreme; a shirt of hickory stripe, tucked in 
pants of Kentucky jeans, these insufficiently sup- 
ported by one suspender formed of a strip of blue 
denim passing transversely across front and back; 
constant vigilance and frequent hitches being nec- 
essary to preserve the waist line near the tropics. 
When he took his position on the torture block 

152 



Friday Afternoon in the Old-Time School 153 

he saluted with a bob of the head intended for 
a bow; his "piece" spoken, the bob was dupli- 
cated and he started for the bench, his steps grow- 
ing faster until he reached the haven almost in a 
run. 

It was Friday afternoon in the little log school- 
house. All the week the days had been counted 
with anticipation until Thursday morning, when 
the nightmare of the Friday exercises came as a 
fly dropping into a saucer of cream. 

Outside, plainly seen through the unceiled 
cracks between the logs, the bees droned lazily; 
a butterfly circled in the afternoon sunshine; afar 
off came the call of a homing cow. Usually the 
school would have been half asleep with nothing 
between it and "dismission" except the big class 
spelling. But to-day all was awake, those who 
had not been to the grill pale with dread, those 
who had been through the mill frolicsome and 
jovial. 

Around the walls on three sides sat the pupils. 
There were only seventeen of them, for schools 
were small in the sparsely settled country. The 
teacher, a woman just past twenty, sat in a home- 
made chair by one door, a pine table in front of 
her. Poor pay and much work was her portion, 
but she loved the task and the children. The 
state paid about five cents a day per pupil for 
sixty days only in the year, and that pay was then 



154 Saturday Night Sketches 

as now very slow In coming. The remainder of 
her promised stipend of eight to ten cents a day 
per pupil was made up among the parents. Note 
we say "promised," for by no means all of it was 
paid. 

The schoolhouse stood on the brow of a hill 
in a grove of scrub oaks. To the west, a small 
creek which with its swamp and ever-present moc- 
casins and mythical wild-cats was a source both 
of wonderment and delight. Its undergrowth, 
alas, also provided the rods of correction on the 
rare occasions when they were needed. Once a 
month the house also did duty as a church, the 
scrub oaks serving as hitching-posts. On three 
sides was the pine forest and apparently endless 
stretches of wiregrass; a footpath led down the 
hillside to a spring; along which path many pil- 
grimages were daily made. 

Across one end of the schoolhouse, on a long 
bench especially reserved for them, sat the visitors 
— three or four mothers of pupils — the fathers 
were always too busy to look after a little thing 
like a child's educational progress. These visitors 
unwittingly added greatly to the embarrassment of 
the young Ciceros and female poets. 

Every Friday afternoon, after the midday meal 
and the concluding lesson, came the exercises. 
First recitations, as they are now termed, "speak- 
ing a piece" we called it then. The smaller boys 



Friday Afternoon in the Old-Time School 155 

and girls with a few lines each, with the boys 
"The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck," grading 
up from doggerel verse to "Bunker Hill," ex- 
tracts from Patrick Henry, and occasional ven- 
tures, on rare occasions, to a translation from 
Cicero, Among the smaller girls, "Mary Had a 
Little Lamb" ran neck and neck with "Twinkle, 
Twinkle, Little Star," and for the larger girls, 
who were guided into the mysteries of a "Compo- 
sition" (now called an essay) "Flowers of Spring," 
"Birds," and "The Beauties of Nature," formed 
an endless procession. 

As their names were called, boys and girls al- 
ternating, they would march to the terrible square 
of the floor across the room from the teacher, 
with a curtsey, a bob of the head or a formal bow, 
speak their pieces, say their verses, or read their 
compositions. As many different methods as there 
are phases of human nature; some so hurried that 
their words were jumbled in an indistinguishable 
mass; others stammering and halting; still others, 
with studied deliberation. And always, no matter 
whether failure or success attended, there was a 
smile of pride and approval from one on the 
mothers' bench. 

One boy had been laboriously groomed by a 
proud mother for something out of the ordinary. 
He was to attempt a verse beginning, "There 
Is But One Lamp by Which My Feet Are Guid- 



156 Saturday Night Sketches 

ed," and carefully had he been drilled therein 
until he was letter perfect. But when he got out 
on the floor, he had a buck ague of stage fright. 
He started bravely, "There Is But One Lamp," 
and forgot the balance. Repeatedly he tried, 
"There Is But One Lamp," but could get no fur- 
ther. At last, with "There Is But One Lamp — 
Lamp — Lamp — Lamp — Lamp," each repetition 
growing louder until the last was shrilled at the 
top of his voice, he burst into tears and fled. 

During a lull in the exercises, a little girl, pre- 
tending to be studying but really for an excuse 
to get to the water-bucket, sidled up to the teacher, 
her finger pointing to a word in the open book in 
her hand. "Discrimination," the teacher pro- 
nounced. One of the larger girls across the room, 
who was impatiently curbing her spirits, misunder- 
stood, "Dismissi-missi-missi-missi-mission," she 
sang, throwing down her book and dancing half- 
way across the room. The absolute silence and 
the frown on the teacher's face showed her mis- 
take, and she sat down, hiding her flaming face. 

But all things end some time, and after a while 
the torture was over, the big class in spelling came, 
and then dismission. School was out until Mon- 
day, and two long days of rest ahead, with nothing 
to do but feed the stock, work in the field, do the 
chores of the farm, run errands and play. 

Primitive methods and primitive people, but 



Friday Afternoon in the Old-Time School 157 

both were thorough. A majority of the lawyers, 
preachers, doctors and statesmen of the South 
Georgia of to-day got a start toward an education 
under just such circumstances. What they made 
of themselves is another story altogether, but of 
the times and people, sufficient unto the day was 
the task thereof. We must judge by results, and 
from such a standard, they did well. 



CORN PLANTING TIME 

On the slope of the pine-clad hills the new crop 
of grass was springing, a brilliant green; along 
the branch below the field the poplars and black- 
gums were putting out fresh leaves and the ever- 
green bays and magnolias had taken on a more 
verdant tinge; down where the field merged into 
the branch lowlands, the patch of plum trees was 
a cloud of snow-white bloom; farther up the hill- 
side the peach trees, covered with a pink mantle, 
perfumed the air; in the yard, the yellow jessa- 
mine, the jonquils and crocus were in flower; in 
the air a feeling of don't-careness; the sunshine 
had a zigzag haze well called "laziness dancing;" 
on a nearby stump a lark sang and watched, and 
from a distant pine a crow looked on and waited. 
It was mid-March and Bud and the Boy were 
planting corn. 

After Christmas, the land had been broken. 
Then manure was hauled out from the lot and 
distributed in conical piles. With a long stake to 
the top of which a newspaper had been tied to 
make it more easily distinguished, the rows had 
been measured and laid off carefully, six feet 

158 



Co7-n Planting Time 159 

apart. Across them at three feet distances, rows 
were run, until the field resembled a big checker- 
board. Where the rows crossed, there the hills 
of corn would be. 

But first the youth and boy, with aprons or 
boxes, put out the manure; two handfuls to each 
hill, a slow and back-breaking task. Now they 
were planting corn, the Boy dropping the grains; 
Bud covering it with the plow. 

From the crib the ears had been selected, 
nubbed, and the Boy carried a supply in a sack 
slung from his neck. Once two furrows were re- 
quired to cover the corn in each row and the Boy 
had an easy time, Bud having to make two rounds 
to his one. The past summer Bud had a stroke 
of genius. In the branch he had found a gum with 
a fork just the right size. It had been cut and 
carried to the house, seasoned, and then trimmed 
for a plowstock. An old pair of handles and a 
beam had been added, and to the forked foot two 
scooter plows attached. So Bud could straddle 
a furrow and cover a row at a trip, and the Boy 
had no time for leisure. 

Up and down the rows they went, the nose of 
the horse just a few inches behind the Boy's back. 
It looks easy to drop corn, but looks are deceptive. 
Every grain had to go exactly to the right place, 
else when later cross-plowing came, the corn would 
be plowed up. In the hand a small supply was 



i6o Saturday Night Sketches 

carried, and over the first finger each grain was 
shoved by the thumb to fall into its place ; to ger- 
minate and grow, that man and horse might be 
fed. 

All the morning long, the work went on with 
occasional stops to drink from the water-gourd 
with the diamond-shaped hole cut near the top, 
that stood in the shade in the corner of the fence. 
Would dinner and rest never come? The Boy's 
feet were lead-weighted; anxiously he would 
glance toward the distant house; laziness danced 
in the air, and coursed sluggishly through the 
Boy's blood; surely the day was a week long. 

At last the long expected call came. That tired 
feeling disappeared, as under a magic elixir. The 
Boy helped untie the plow-lines from the bridle- 
bits, while Bud unfastened the hamestring, and 
drawing back hames and backhand deposited the 
gear astride the stock. On the sweating back of 
the horse the Boy was boosted for the ride home. 
Bud walked. 

A gap had been made in the fence by letting 
down two panels. Out at this the horse walked, 
the Boy on his back, while Bud stopped to put up 
the rails. The horse was as hungry as the boys, 
and hurried. Down across the small branch, and 
up the opposite hill toward the house he went at 
a fast walk, and Bud followed leisurely behind. 

The lot gate stood open, and in front of it 



Corn Planting Time i6i 

straight across the lot, the door of the log stall 
yawned Invitingly, promising corn and fodder for 
the hungry horse. Across the wide gate, from 
post to post, was a cap-piece and the top of the 
stall door was just high enough to allow the horse 
to enter. 

When the horse neared the open gate, the Boy 
saw the cap-piece and for the first time realized 
his danger. It was too low for him to pass un- 
der. He was too small to dismount without 
assistance, and the short rope bridle-rein was 
beyond his reach. Frantically, he shouted 
"whoa!" but the horse, intent on dinner, only 
went faster. He called to Bud, and Bud, seeing 
what was coming, struck a trot, calling also to 
the horse, which for the time being had as well 
been deaf. But Bud was too far behind. 

Nearer the gate cap-piece approached, and 
down on the horse's back the Boy flattened, his 
frightened eyes measuring the distance. Under 
they went, but it was a close shave, the cap-piece 
scraping along the Boy's back. 

Now the stable ! And the horse hurried faster. 
The noise attracted the Mother to the door, and 
she also ran toward the lot. Relentless as fate, 
like a condemned culprit watching for the axe or 
the knife of the guillotine to fall, the Boy watched 
the approach to that stable door. 

There was no escape, and as the horse walked 



1 62 Saturday Night Sketches 

in, the Boy was wiped off along his back and over 
his tail as smoothly as a bug from a banana. He 
hit the ground flat of his back, with a bump that 
knocked the breath out of him. The horse went 
on to his feed. There was much wailing, of 
course, but no broken bones. The Boy lost his 
taste for riding from the field for some time to 
come. 

Long since, his hurts have healed. Now they 
have fertilizer distributors and machines for plant- 
ing corn. We work faster these days and live 
much faster. There was more detail labor then, 
and more time was required for a task, but we 
had plenty of time. There was a whole year in 
which to make a crop ; we had no fertilizer to pay 
for; no expensive clothes to buy; no grocery bills, 
no laundry bills to pay; and no money to spend 
for cigarettes or cold drinks; it did not cost so 
much to live, and we had plenty of time in which 
to provide the necessities of life. 



TOWN BALL ON THE SCHOOLHOUSE 
YARD 

"Wet or dry?" called the tall youth with one 
knit suspender, as he spat upon the side of the 
paddle and tossed it in the air. 

"Dry," responded the stocky youth with the 
missing front tooth and copperas breeches. 

"Wet she lies," the bystanders shouted, and 
the boy with the stocking suspender won. He 
had first choice of team-mates and the first turn 
at bat. 

They did not necessarily have nine to a side 
in those days, and the two teams of four each 
marched out to the rear of the yard, where five 
spots clear of grass marked the bases, pitcher's 
box and home plate. 

While town ball was the predecessor of base- 
ball, it was quite a different game in many ways. 
The ball used was home-made, the work of many 
patient hours. First, for the thread, a pair of 
home knit socks, worn beyond hope of repair, was 
necessary. These were cut off at the ankle and 
the cut ends picked out until the unbroken thread 
was reached. Then, hour after hour, the threads 

163 



164 Saturday Night Sketches 

of the sock were raveled and wound into the ball. 

For the center, a rock was commonly used. In 
later days, when the railroads were building, 
sometimes it was possible to obtain a priceless 
piece of the hard rubber, used somewhere in the 
axle boxes of the freight cars. Such a center made 
a ball of wonderful resilience. But if nothing else 
was to be had a large round pebble was used, and 
it answered very well. It must not be too large, 
because damage might be done, as you will see 
later. These balls were made from cotton socks 
usually, but if a man could be found in the com- 
munity who wore woolen socks, the life of his 
foot-covering was the object of much watchful 
waiting, for the yarn made a ball great on the 
rebound. After the sock was unraveled and the 
ball wound, mother's aid was called in (or per- 
haps grandma's), and the outside was carefully 
stitched. 

The ball was literally "pitched," the pitcher 
taking it in his hand, palm upward and tossing 
it to the batter, the ball rising and descending 
In a long semi-circle. There were no "bats" used 
then. One would have been laughed at. The 
batter used a paddle with a wide blade, usually 
made from a board which had seen better days, 
with one end trimmed with a pocket-knife until 
it could be grasped with the hand. The main ob- 
ject was to hit the ball, just as it is to-day. Once 




TOWN BALL 



Town Ball on the Schoolhouse Yard 165 

a player came in with a white-oak chairpost for 
a bat. Nobody believed he could hit anything 
with it, and when he did, and lost the ball in the 
wiregrass, his chair leg was ruled out. 

The batter had three strikes; no balls were 
called on him, and if he did not hit with three 
he was out. Also, if he hit at a ball and missed 
it, and the player behind him caught it, either be- 
fore it touched the ground, or on the first bounce, 
the batter was out. If he hit the ball and a fielder 
caught it before it struck the ground or on the 
first bounce, he was out. In running bases, if he 
was hit by the ball, he was out. The fielders did 
not hold bases. They were disposed where their 
captain's experience dictated they could do the 
most good, so when a batted ball was secured, it 
was not thrown to the bases, for nobody was 
there. It was thrown at the runner direct, and 
if the ball was hard or heavy or the thrower 
strong, some time the runner was downed. If the 
runner secured a base, he was batted in by his 
mates, much as they are now. 

There were no umpires and no professional 
pitchers. Anybody pitched, and nearly everybody 
caught. Disputes were settled by the sense of 
fairness, or the muscular superiority of the play- 
ers. If the game ended in a scrap it was no way 
different from many of the games of to-day, and 
the schoolmaster always could be depended on to 



1 66 Saturday Night Sketches 

interfere at the proper time. 

The school grounds were ample, for they in- 
cluded a part of over a million uncultivated acres 
in the county. By some means the trees had been 
cleared from a few acres, and one plowing at 
some time in the past had put the wiregrass out 
of business forever. Not far away was the school- 
house, a framed building built some day by re- 
mote but progressive ancestors and about the only 
building exclusively used for school purposes in 
the county. It was at the county site. 

The state was not very liberal to the schools 
then — indeed it never has been — and paid only 
about five cents per head for tuition for three 
months of twenty days each during the year. The 
balance of the sum considered by the teacher ab- 
solutely essential for existence was made up by 
the community. The teacher was a man of few 
words but prompt action. What he lacked in per- 
sonal magnetism or persuasive powers he made up 
from an assortment of neatly trimmed black-gum 
sprouts always kept standing behind his chair. 

The entire school, a motley assemblage of 
gawky youths and boys and girls and maidens, 
ranging in ages from twenty down to seven years 
which was then the limit, followed the players out 
to the ball ground. The teacher looked on and 
chewed his tobacco reflectively from the vantage 
point of a stump near by. 



Town Ball on the Schoolhouse Yard iS'j 

The suspender boy, by virtue of his right as 
captain, marched to the home-plate and took his 
stand. Choosing his own distance in front. Cop- 
peras Breeches faced him. Without any prelimi- 
nary winding up or grand-stand plays the ball was 
pitched; it went wide. The next one came closer 
and with a mighty "swish" the paddle went at it, 
but missed. It struck the ground and rebounded 
and the catcher came to life. He made three fran- 
tic grabs at it as it came by him on the first bounce 
but he missed it and it rolled away on the grass. 
The next one the batter let go by but he caught 
the fourth fairly with a mighty "swoop," and it 
went far out afield as the batter dashed for first 
base. He passed first and was on his way to sec- 
ond when the ball came hurtling toward him, like 
a bundle of shucks. He paused and dodged and 
it went wild, but another fielder quickly stopped it 
and he only made second. 

His companion sent the ball out into the edge 
of the wiregrass and he had made third and 
sprinted for home when the fielder called "lost 
ball," which was supposed to stop the game. He 
ran on, and a riot nearly ensued, the runner claim- 
ing that the fielder purposely failed to look for 
the ball, and the other side that the runner should 
have stopped when the ball was lost. It was too 
early in the proceedings, however, for the players 
to allow a dispute to stop the game, so the runner 



1 68 Saturday Night Sketches 

went back to third and another mate went to the 
bat. He was caught out on the first ball he struck 
at and another one batted straight into the stom- 
ach of a fielder near by, who stopped the ball from 
necessity, picked it up and with a resounding thud 
nailed the man who was running to first. The 
man on third came in just in time, for there was 
no one else to go to bat. 

And so the game went on until the noon recess 
was over and the shout of "books" called them 
to the school room. 

Some of those boys have played bigger games 
since. Among them has been represented the bar, 
medicine, surgery, financial and agricultural South 
Georgia, and we are sorry to say some of the 
criminal history of the state. A closer observer, 
by watching the ball game, could make a guess as 
to the paths in life the players would follow. 



THE OLD WAY OF SHELLING PEANUTS 

There is a demand for peanut shellers now and 
the machinery manufacturers are doing a thriving 
business. We used different machines in the old 
days — much less expensive, but infinitely more pre- 
cious. 

After the Christmas holidays, in the midst of 
the spring plowing, we went over to Jim's to shell 
his peanuts for him — only we did not call them 
peanuts then — the new name has come with mod- 
ern machinery and the commercializing of the pea- 
nut. It was as good, old-fashioned groundpeas 
that we knew them. And all farmers were not 
finicky about having their groundpeas shelled for 
planting — they just dropped 'em in, hull and all, 
and trusted to luck. They usually came up. But 
Jim was thorough in his ways, shelled his ground- 
peas, soaked his seed corn, rolled his cotton seed 
in hen house manure, and did all those other things 
considered necessary to good farming. 

We gathered at Jim's at early candle-light. 
Mrs. Jim had prepared for us, for the yard was 
fresh swept, down to the front gate between the 
rows of winter pinks; the floor was spotless — a 

169 



170 Saturday Night Sketches 

normal condition — the furniture moved back, and 
a dozen chairs in a half circle in front of the wide 
fire-place, in which blazed a crackling fire of pine 
logs. 

The young folks came in couples — usually, and 
in couples they sat just out of range from the heat 
of the fire. A pan, or a piggin, or a small basket 
— even a boy's hat, served as a receptacle for the 
groundpeas for each couple. And soon nimble 
fingers were cracking the hulls, and the shelled 
groundpeas dropped usually into an apron, spread 
across the girl's lap. 

Jokes were cracked about as fast as groundpea 
hulls, girlish giggles or boyish laughter keeping a 
musical accompaniment. Occasionally a song, 
more often a story, but the majority of the fun 
was furnished by the community cut-up — always 
a boy — and the tense and embarrassing moments 
by the settlement tease — usually a girl. The cut- 
up invariably wore a red tie, so glaring that one 
feared it would ignite his celluloid collar; his vest 
lacked two inches of connecting with the waist- 
band of his pants, and the latter were always skin 
tight and three inches too short. Add a pink shirt 
and blue and white home-knit socks showing above 
his brogan shoes, and we had an ensemble to make 
anybody laugh. His freckled face was always 
grinning, and his contagious good-humor brought 
the introductory smile before his joke provoked 



The Old Way of Shelling Peanuts i^i 

the laugh. Also we had the fireman whose duty 
it was to keep the blaze going. Jim did this, also 
keeping groundpeas on hand. 

There was not much opportunity for spooning 
— the conversation was too general. But occa- 
sionally the low-spoken word, the speaking glance, 
and the electric tingle when two fingers acciden- 
tally touched. 

Few temptations are stronger than fresh shelled 
groundpeas to the appetite of youth, and not a 
few were surreptitiously slipped between boyish 
lips or ground by pearly teeth, but as a rule we 
were on honor, and although the mouth might 
water, the groundpeas were safe for planting. 

Talk about your shellers of to-day. There was 
never anything to equal the shellers of forty years 
ago. Those were not machines — the shellers then 
were the real thing. Many of those who shelled 
then have cracked the knotty problems of life 
since, but the great majority have, like the ground- 
peas, returned to earth and been born again into 
a new and greater life. 

Only an hour or so, and the groundpeas were 
shelled and poured into a common receptacle. 
There had been races, or course, and the winners 
smiled proudly, but more than anything else there 
had been laughter and chatter, because youth is 
gay and fun is the savor of life. 

Now, chairs are pushed back, and Mrs. Jim 



172 Saturday Night Sketches 

and two of the girls (with straw brooms cut from 
the broomsedge of the old field across the branch) 
sweep the scattered hulls and trash into the fire. 
One of the girls whispered to Mrs. Jim ; she nod- 
ded and sm.iled. "Bill," the girl said, "if you'll 
draw some syrup, I'll hold the hght." Would 
Bill? He wouldn't have missed it for half that 
gave Rockefeller indigestion. 

Bill lighted some long sphnters at the fire-place, 
while the girl went with Mrs, Jim into the kitchen 
for a pitcher. Then out to the smokehouse in 
the yard, other couples considerately refusing to 
go along. The syrup barrel stood up on end in 
a corner. There was no faucet, a wooden peg 
stopping the bung, while a strip of leather, cut 
from the vamp of an old shoe, directed the flow 
of liquid. While the girl held the light. Bill tilted 
down the barrel, pulled out the peg and watched 
the syrup flow into the pitcher. Of course, it ran 
over, and the overflow was caught on eager finger 
and licked off, to prevent waste. 

They were gone a long time, for there was much 
to say, and when at last they came back, her 
cheeks were glowing and Bill looked as if he had 
tasted something far sweeter than any compound 
of man's making. 

While they were away, preparations had been 
made, and now a big iron cooking spider was set 
on a trivet brought from the kitchen fire-place, 



The Old Way of Shelling Peanuts 173 

and under this a bed of coals was soon glowing. 
The syrup was poured in, and before long was 
foaming up to the top of the spider. Fast ladling 
kept it from boiling over, and occasional tests 
were made to ascertain how far it was from candy. 
Then at the right time, groundpeas, previously 
broken, were poured in. Soon the whole was 
cooked into groundpea candy, one of the finest 
confections in the world. 

When done, the candy, dark brown with light 
specks of groundpeas, was poured up into larded 
or buttered plates, and set out on the watershelf 
to cool, for you cannot pull groundpea candy. 
While it was cooling, the real fun of the night 
began, for those young people were not tired yet. 

Chairs were set back against the wall. The 
bed had been taken down already. One of the 
boys had a harmonica and two had jew's-harps. 
This trio were given seats of honor, in the chim- 
ney comer, partners were chosen, the music start- 
ed up, and to it were added fresh young voices 
in song. For hours then the fun went on, twisti- 
fication and many varieties of singing plays, 
groundpea candy serving for refreshments in the 
brief intervals of rest. It was long past midnight 
when the most prudent, thinking of the day's plow- 
ing and the early start for to-morrow, left, while 
still four couples were keeping time with tripping 
feet to the music and their own voices in: 



174 Saturday Night Sketches 

^^I'll make my living on sandy land; 
I'll make my living on sandy land; 
I'll make my living on sandy land; 
So ladies fare you well. 

Perhaps you think it cost Jim too much to get 
his groundpeas shelled? Jim did not think so. 



AT OLD CHINA GROVE 

"Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound; 
Mine ears attend the cry." 

The preacher closed his Bible, picked up his 
hymn-book and lined out the first of the old, fa- 
miliar song. 

The congregation rose. An elder, an aged pa- 
triarch, raised the tune; one by one the men joined 
in. From across the aisle a female voice took up 
the air; gradually the song grew in volume, until 

"Ye living men, come view the ground 
Where you must shortly lie." 

rolled out in a wave of song from the log church, 
through the oaks surrounding, across pine and 
wiregrass covered hill and vale. 

The church stood on the crest of a hill, com- 
manding a view of the beautiful, almost primeval, 
country surrounding. To the east meandered a 
small stream towards the Gulf; its waters alive 
with fish; along its borders one of the finest deer 
ranges this country knew; the stream taking its 
name from the memory of an Indian warrior killed 

175 



176 Saturday Night Sketches 

on Its banks. Surrounding the church was a grove 
of oaks, and around this, miles of unbroken forest. 

The church had been built of pine logs, cut to 
make room for the building, peeled of their bark, 
notched and set into place by hands ready in the 
service of the Lord. The roof was of shingles 
split from pine blocks and drawn, one at a time, 
by hand with a drawing-knife. Even the pulpit, 
framed of small hewn logs, was built of boards 
split with a frow from the pine. The benches 
were of logs, split and hewn, and fitted with legs 
driven into augur-holes. 

It did not require money to build a church in 
those days, but a vast amount of labor. Mate- 
rial was free and the work was by many ready 
hands, so after all the task was not so great. The 
result was as substantial and time-defying as the 
sturdy yeomanry and their religion. 

"Hardshells" we call them — Primitive Bap- 
tists now, but the name represented that which 
was solid and lasting, rugged perhaps but true 
as tried steel, a religion which noble men lived 
by and died by. 

The song they were singing was like them — 
nothing frivolous, nothing temporary, but solemn 
and earnest; bringing thoughts of God, also of the 
certainty of death and the vastness of eternity. 
There were few revivals then; none among these 
people; the evangelist was unknown. But there 



At Old China Grove 177 

was a staying quality about their religion that in- 
spired one with the confidence that the mariner 
must feel in the Rock of Ages. 

The ordinance of baptism had been adminis- 
tered that morning. The convert was a young 
matron, and she gave her hand to the preacher 
and her life to God amidst a solemn stillness that 
impressed and glorified. 

She was baptized where the road (a three-path 
trail) crossed the stream. Her head bowed in 
humility, but fearlessly, she had walked through 
the water until she reached the preacher's hand 
and the sacred pledge of faith was taken. Loving 
hands had built of poles and sheets a dressing- 
room, and after her clothing was changed the 
crowd climbed the hill to the church, which was 
filled. 

Then to the new member was extended the right 
hand of fellowship, and to the outsiders the event 
of the day was at hand. On two opposite benches 
the male members faced. Across the house, on 
two more benches also opposite, the female mem- 
bers grouped. It was the observance of foot- 
washing, the sacred custom peculiar to that church; 
a testimonial of their humility, even as their Mas- 
ter was humble. Then the sermon came. 

The preacher had a wonderful gift. He was 
a man who worked for six days of the week on 
his farm, but he had time for meditation, and on 



178 Saturday Night Sketches 

the Sabbath it was good to hear him. His sermon 
stirred the great crowd, and the moment was a 
tense one when the solemn hymn was raised. 

There were few tears, but many faces were 
drawn with emotion. It was a red-letter day with 
a people who were as the salt of the earth. In 
the congregation were many of the men who built 
South Georgia. The matron then, is nursing her 
great-grandchildren now, but the light she saw 
that day has guided her through a life of great 
usefulness. 




THE BAPTISM 



SOL DRAWHORN AND THE GREY 
LIZARD 

Sol Drawhorn was a nervous man. 

He was afraid of creeping things ; snakes were 
an abomination, spiders a dread, scorpions and 
centipedes kept him on the watch, but more than 
all these he dreaded grey lizards — those little fel- 
lows that hide under the fence rails on the shady 
side and under pine knots and logs in the woods. 
One of these would come near throwing him into 
a fit and he made a point to kill all he found. 
Like the rest of us he knew they were harmless, 
but they just had a terror for him that he could 
not get away from. 

It was mid-summer and road-working time. 
The overseer had been around the week before 
and warned all the hands on his division, and in 
the early morning they came, with hoes and shov- 
els, a few axes, and one sent a horse and plow 
instead of a hand. They had five miles of road, 
nearly all of it a three-path trail, and as there 
was little travel so there was little work to be 
done. A log or two to cut out; a few roots washed 
bare on a hillside by the spring rains to remove, 

179 



i8o Saturday Night Sketches 

and occasional little gullies to fill in with hoe and 
shovel. Walking was the big part of the day's 
job and they finished at the five-mile post marking 
the district line when noon came. 

Dinner had been brought in tin pails, small bas- 
kets or In a package, slung In a bag across the 
shoulder. Down the hill was a spring at the 
branch-head, and with a drink of water all around, 
the dozen or more men sprawled on the thick car- 
pet of wiregrass, under the cool shade of the big 
pines, eating dinner, cracking jokes, and spinning 
yarns. 

Sol was something of a wit, and he hurried 
through his eating, to have some fun. He was 
standing up, telling a funny yarn and doing most 
of the laughing. He wore a striped hickory shirt, 
home-knit yarn suspenders, copperas-dyed jeans 
breeches and brogan shoes. The breeches hung 
loose and gaping at the waist and the shoes were 
fastened with buckskin laced once and tied, the 
tops gaping open like the orifice of an inverted 
bell. 

Sol was right In the middle of his joke when 
the fat man who was lying on his elbow and smok- 
ing a stick-and-dirt pipe noticed something. 

"There's a lizard on your shoulder, Sol," he 
said. 

Sol went white, and glanced around. Only too 
truel There was one of the dreadful little gray 



Sol Drawhorn and the Grey Lizard i8i 

fellows looking over his left shoulder, its pulsing 
throat protruding and sinking back as it breathed. 

With a yell like a Comanche, Sol jumped side- 
ways, swiping at the lizard with both hands. Hor- 
rors ! Instead of knocking it off, the glancing 
blow sent the lizard downwards and it fell inside 
the gaping waistband of Sol's pants. Underwear 
was not worn in those times, especially on week- 
days, and as Sol felt the cold slimy thing strug- 
gling for a foothold on his bare legs he came as 
near giving an exhibition of hysterics as any grown 
man ever put up. 

He commenced jumping straight up In the air, 
as high as his muscles would carry him, and every 
time he went up he yelled, "Oh!" When he hit 
the ground he rebounded like a rubber ball and 
went up again, and when he got as high as he 
could, he would holler. It looked as if he could 
not stop, and perhaps that was true. As he kept 
going up and down, like a churn dasher, making 
a noise like a female concert at a holy roller re- 
vival, the men looking on rolled over on the grass 
and laughed until they were too weak to help Sol, 
even If they had wanted to. Holding his shaking 
sides as he gasped for breath, the fat man begged: 

*'For God's sake stop him, boys, or he'll kill 
me." 

The jar of Sol's jumps had dropped the lizard 
down his pants leg into the gaping vamp of his 



iSz Saturday Night Sketches 

shoe, then down by his foot, but still Sol jumped 
and hollered. At last when the lizard had been 
crushed under his foot to a shapeless mass, Sol 
continued to jump — only now he was barely able 
to raise his feet from the ground and his yell had 
degenerated to a feeble grunt, "Uh!" Finally, 
when he could no longer raise his feet clear, his 
heels would come up, and as they dropped back he 
still grunted. At last exhausted, he fell and they 
carried water from the spring and sprinkled his 
face to bring him around. 

Two had to walk a mile to borrow Bill Davis' 
ox cart to carry Sol home. Yes, he certainly was 
a fool about lizards. 



SHEEP-SHEARING TIME 

There was the sound of cracking whips, bleat- 
ing lambs, and calling ewes ; a cloud of dust hung 
in the hot sunshine; afar down the road, into the 
lane leading to the sheep-pen appeared the head 
of the drove; behind, easily sitting their horses 
or riding quickly to the left or right to bring in 
would-be deserters, rode the men. 

For it was May in Wiregrass Georgia and 
sheep-shearing time. By thousands the small ani- 
mals had ranged the pine-clad, wiregrass carpeted 
hills for twelve months. Winter or summer they 
required no feeding, the range being all sufficient, 
and only passing attention, to keep down depreda- 
tions of dogs or other animals of prey. At last 
the balmy days of spring had given place to the 
hot sun of early summer, and the winter coats of 
the animals, accumulated since the May before, 
became unbearably hot — therefore it was a neces- 
sity in the name of humanity as well as for the 
owner's profit, to herd the sheep and remove the 
heavy wool. 

Shearing time was also gathering time, marking, 
and branding time. As far as possible, the sheep 

183 



184 Saturday Night Sketches 

belonging to different owners were separated, but 
occasionally some ewe with her lamb, or a ram 
or wether would wander far from the home fold. 
Such were always cared for, identified by the mark 
or brand of the older one. The lamb would be 
put in its owner's mark, and the wool sheared from 
the old sheep and carefully put aside. Some time 
during the summer, when there was "passing," this 
"coat" would be sent to its owner. For the stock 
men of that day were scrupulously honest. 

For several days the men, perhaps a dozen, the 
number depending on the range and the size of 
the flock, had ridden the range. From their camps 
and bottom grass feeds the sheep, In small herds, 
had been gathered, until In this drove there were 
several hundred. All the morning, panting in 
the heat they had marched, and the old leaders 
knew the goal was in sight. 

Down the lane they came, a ram or austere 
wether leading. A cross lane passed in front of 
the gap to the pen, but this was guarded on either 
side by herders who had hurried on in advance. 
The leader came to the road, tried to turn this 
way and that; headed off In either direction, and 
pressed by the flock behind him, he advanced to 
the open gap, sniffed, turned, again about-faced 
and snorted at the entrance — then with a bound 
he was through, and once through, the balance fol- 
lowed, as fast as they could crowd through the 



Sheep-Shearing Time 185 

gap, unless some belligerent ram turned to contest 
the passage until routed by the long, black-snake 
whip of a watchful herder. 

Inside the big pen, the animals had a short while 
to rest, and then, a dozen or two at a time, were 
driven into the small pen at the shearing-sheds. 
Here, under long board shelters, were the shear- 
ing tables, of rough pine plank, worn slick with 
usage, about the height of a man's waist. All 
through this country then were experienced shear- 
ers, to whom the season was what cotton-picking 
is now. Several pair of shears, made of one broad 
piece of steel, either end a sharp point and bent 
just enough for the blades to spring apart when 
the pressure of the hand which brought them to- 
gether relaxed. These had been sharpened to a 
razor-edge. The shearers worked elbow to elbow 
at the long table.^ 

Each shearer caught his own sheep, quickly and 
dexterously tied its four feet with a thong of buck- 
skin, and threw the bleating animal upon the table. 
Then the fast "snip-snip" of the shears removed 
the coat in a time ridiculously short, for the shear- 
ers were experts. The coat ofF, the sheep was 
released, the wool rolled up into a bundle, tied 
with a twist of its own length and thrown in a 
pile in a corner. Then another sheep was caught 
and the process repeated, day in and day out, until 
the flock of hundreds or thousands was sheared. 



1 86 Saturday Night Sketches 

Tired, hot, and hungry, the dinner-horn was a 
welcome call. Out at the well, under the big mul- 
berry tree, on a bench, was a row of tin basins, 
and gourds of home-made lye soap. Here the 
grease and dirt were removed from face and 
hands, but the odor of the sheep remained until 
the clothes were changed. 

Into the big log kitchen, with its white sanded 
floor and its long loaded table, herders and shear- 
ers trooped. At the head, a jug of buttermillc on 
one hand and a big coffee-pot on the other, sat the 
matron of the house; on her left the husband; 
behind her the younger females of the family or 
perhaps two or three from neighboring families 
(for where the young men gathered the young 
women were soon found) stood to "wait on ta- 
ble." First place among the edibles was given to 
mutton, fresh, juicy, and fat, an epicure's delight 
and a hungry man's satisfaction. The meal, in- 
terspersed with jokes or gay badinage, was the 
day's most pleasant event. 

After dinner, an hour's chat under the big oaks 
in the yard, perhaps a gay banter between youth 
and maid at the water-shelf on the long back 
piazza, and then to work again, the shearers to 
their pens, the herders to separate and drive home 
the smaller flocks of varying ownership whose 
owners lived near, or to mark and perhaps brand 
the new crop of lambs, part of the owner's reck- 
oning of his year's profits. 



THE SINGING SCHOOL 

'V saw a wayworn trav'ler 

In tattered garments clad, 
And struggling up the mountain, 

It seemed that he was sad: 
His back was laden heavy, 

His strength was almost gone, 
Yet he shouted as he journeyed, 

'Deliverance will come!' " 

The class paused for breath, even youthful 
lungs panting in response to the rapid measure. 
The leader reached into the side-pocket of his 
coat, took out a bifurcated steel instrument called 
a tuning-fork, set It between his teeth, jerked it 
out, and held the ringing tines to his ear: 

"Catch the sound," he commanded. "Do-o-o-ra- 
me-fa-so-la-se-do !" The class caught the note, 
and they were off again. 

It was a log schoolhouse, used alike for occa- 
sional religious services and the three months an- 
nual term of semi-public school. It was summer- 
time, and with the crops laid by, the young people 
had opportunity for the cultivation of the voice 

187 



1 88 Saturday Night Sketches 

and social propensity, and the itinerant singing 
teacher took advantage of the opening to organ- 
ize a music class. The building was primitive, as 
were its furnishings. A rough pine table beside 
which the teacher stood, benches of split logs, 
rough-hewn on top, but worn smooth with the 
passing time and generations. Through the cracks 
between the logs and the open doors and windows 
came the cool summer breeze, and out again 
floated the notes of melody. 

The class was barely a dozen but they atoned 
in zeal for any lack in number. The book used 
was the time-honored "Sacred Harp," providen- 
tially made oblong that the more students might 
scan the printed page. To obtain one of these 
books was a struggle, for dollars did great duty 
then. From each book, two, three and sometimes 
four sang, usually three, a boy sitting on either 
side, holding the book, the girl between. Even 
when four sang from the same book, there was 
not the least objection to sitting close. 

The girls were simply dressed in cool calicos 
or muslins; the boys perhaps wearing a coat of 
last winter's vintage, and perspiring accordingly, 
or no coat at all and comfort. The only class 
distinction was that between those who wore bro- 
gan shoes and those barefoot — and usually the 
barefoot ones were the best singers. But those 
girls — merry, bright eyes, rosy cheeks, mouths 



The Singing School 189 

alike tuned for laughing, for singing or for k — 
oh, shucks! that's all over now! But it was from 
those girls that Georgia Peaches got their name. 

The singing master was a sawed-off man, with 
a strong voice, a nervous movement, an alpaca 
coat, and a red goatee. His stipend depended on 
results, and he went at his job like a red-bug for 
a picnicker. The class sang by main strength, 
but they sang. 

At the conclusion of the song, there was an- 
other rest, the tuning-fork was again brought into 
use, the note sounded, and the tune raised: 

''^There's a land that is fairer than day 
And by faith we may see it afar; 
For the Father waits over the way, 
To prepare us a dwelling-place there." 

Out of the joyousness and bounding spirits of 
youth they sang; veiled to them the future, when 
the callow youth should be a man of affairs, the 
burdens of hundreds on his shoulders; the laugh- 
ing maid a matron and grandmother, whose smile 
brought light to a dozen homes, and whose exam- 
ple was a beacon to the paths of peace; when the 
barefoot boy with the earnest face should be a 
physician whose trained hand and deft touch stilled 
pain and whose skill fought disease and brought 
health and life where death hovered; when the 
girl with the straggling hair and thoughtful eyes 



190 Saturday Night Sketches 

should be a leader In education and uplift work, 
because she was unhampered with the burden of 
a family, being a mother to hundreds; when the 
boy with the cow-lick and the stone-bruise limp 
should climb the ladder, through the bar and the 
courts, Into the arena of politics and his name be- 
come a national one ; when the girl with the loud 
laugh and the tomboylsh spirits should be Instru- 
mental In bringing many souls to see the Light and 
at last should give up home and kindred ties and 
consecrate her life to the heathen of foreign lands. 

Fortunate then, that the future was behind the 
Mystic Veil; sufficient unto them was the day and 
the fulness thereof. 

But as In memory again we meet, we see not 
so much the school as the road home; when the 
party, at first a merry throng, has come to this 
by-way and that, until only two are left, boy and 
girl of course, pursuing the homeward path, a 
trail through the switching wiregrass, beneath the 
murmuring pines. And hands are joined and fin- 
gers Interlocked as, still Imbued with the spirit of 
song, the green-clad hills re-echoed: 

"C//^ to the bountiful Giver of life, — 
Gathering home! Gathering home! 
Up to the dzvelling where cometh no strife, 
God's children are gathering home!" 

A song prophetic of what is left to-day of that 
singing class of "Auld Lang Syne." 



HELPING AUNT MARY MAKE SAUSAGE 

The sausage Aunt Mary made tasted just a 
little better than any other in the world. There 
was a combination of meats and condiments and 
art in grinding, mixing, stuffing and smoking, that 
produced a harmony of whole to tempt the most 
capricious appetite. Even in these later days of 
dyspepsia and indigestion, and their attendant 
evils, the mouth waters when recollection's ghost 
again spreads the feasts of the past, 

A cold morning, a few days after hog-killing, 
and after the early breakfast, the Boy was out to 
help Aunt Mary with the sausage. Close by the 
log smokehouse the sausage grinder, of cast iron, 
had been screwed fast to the end of the meat- 
bench, on which the year's supply of ham, shoul- 
ders and bacon had been salted down the day be- 
fore. To the other end the stuffer, also of cast 
iron, had been fastened. These two useful ma- 
chines were neighborhood property, passing from 
family to family during the hog-killing season. 

The meat was the trimmings from the pork, 
before salt had been applied. The tenderloins, 
strips of lean from the joints, and bits of fat from 

191 



192 Saturday Night Sketches 

the flanks; just the right proportion of each. Cut 
into strips, these were fed into the grinder, the 
Boy furnishing the steam power; lean and fat al- 
ternating, until the meat exuding from the small 
aperture in the bottom of the grinder was a red- 
dish gray. 

After several hours' grinding — the Boy mean- 
while having frequently "hollered for the calf- 
rope" for relief at the crank — the meat nearly 
filled the cedar tub used as a receptacle. Then 
Aunt Mary's skill came into play. Carefully pul- 
verized by beating in a coarse cloth with a mallet, 
was the sage — which had been gathered the sum- 
mer before from the bushes by the garden fence, 
dried in the sun and put away for the occasion. 
Pulverized also the pods of brilliant red pepper, 
which had also grown in the garden and had been 
gathered as soon as ripe, strung on long threads 
and hung upon the walls on the big house piazza. 
Then the salt, and other seasonings — just the right 
amounts, for therein lay the secret of Aunt Mary's 
success. Then the mixing, with spoon, pestle and 
with hands, over and over again, until sage, pep- 
per, salt, etc., had been worked into the meat right 
where each belonged — not too much, but mixed 
with a painstaking thoroughness unknown in our 
days of hurry. 

Then came the stuffing. The iron box of the 
long stuffer was filled with meat, and over the tin 



Helping Aunt Mary Make Sausage 193 

tube on the end the casing was drawn. These 
casings themselves represented great patience and 
much labor. First after hog-killing they had been 
stripped of outside fat, ridded, washed and turned. 
Then soaked over night; then washed and turned 
again. Then another soaking and a third wash- 
ing, before they were considered ready for use. 

Always, the Boy wanted to turn the stuffer, and 
always he turned it too fast until a warning cry 
stopped him. Much patience was required here, 
but slowly the pile of stuffed sausage grew, each 
long, pink, snake-like fellow tied at either end with 
a string. Every few minutes the Boy ran to the 
fire near the bench to warm his hands, and always 
Aunt Mary's fingers were busy — turning a link to 
stop a rent, tying an end, or slipping more casings 
over the stuffer's snout. 

The stuffing done, the long strings of sausage 
were balanced and draped over small drying poles 
and hung from joist to joist overhead in the 
smokehouse. Then came the smoking, for Aunt 
Mary's skill did not stop with sausage making. 
Just the right kind of dry, pine sap, or oak, and the 
smudged fire was kept going, day and night, until 
those sausage were cured just as she wanted them. 

And the result? 

When the mists of dawn are flying 
Before the rising God of Day; 



194 Saturday Night Sketches 

Just to smell those sausage frying 
In the kitchen, 'cross the way. 

On the table, dark brown, luscious; 

Pile the dish up, full and high. 
Bring a hoe-cake, one for just us; 

Give elbow room and let ' er fly! 

Oh, ye gods of things delicious! 

A vaunt, Lucullus, of fabled shade! 
Of all the best of childhood's dishes. 

Give us the sausage Aunt Mary made! 

Gone are the sausage with the other good things 
of childhood, and youth. Remains only memory, 
but thank God for memory ! Strange, isn't it, that 
the mixed hog and beef scrap sausage of commerce 
compares with those brown links of epicurean lus- 
ciousness about as sawdust compares with ambro- 
sia, or an osage with an orange? 

Do you remember how they tasted Sunday 
morning for breakfast, with hot, beaten biscuit, 
and brindled gravy? Or, did you ever come in 
from a long tramp, cold and hungry, in mid-after- 
noon, stop by the smokehouse and purloin a few 
precious links; then broil them on the coals of a 
smouldering fire and eat them with a chunk of cold 
cornbread? If you did neither, then it is no use 
to talk longer. 



A DEER DRIVE IN THE OLD DAYS 

"Hold him, boys; here It comes 1" 

And seeing that it was useless to struggle, with 
two sinewy hands grasping either arm, the youth 
submitted to be "blooded" with the life fluid of 
his first deer. 

Early that morning, the four had started for 
the "drive" ; three veteran hunters and the recruit. 
Two carried rifles, in themselves no light load; 
long of barrel and small of bore, the bullet molded 
from bar lead bought in the distant town, the 
powder carried in a gourd swung from the shoul- 
der, each load to be carefully measured, packed 
with the ramrod, and the bullet, set in its square 
of cloth, driven down on it. Loading was a slow 
process, but not many loads were wasted. One 
carried a shotgun, with its charge of nine buckshot 
in each barrel, while the recruit had a carbine, a 
relic of war times, immense of bore but short of 
range. 

The hunt had been planned for several weeks. 
Its object was "Old Sam," a buck with spreading 
five-point antlers, who had lorded the range for 
many years, despite frequent and carefully planned 

195 



196 Saturday Night Sketches 

expeditions to trap him. He had earned his nick- 
name in many encounters with canine pursuers, 
In which the dogs always came home in shape for 
the hospital — if they came home at all. 

It was a six-mile tramp to the headwaters of 
the Lola creek, where the drive was to start, but 
the hunters thought little of that. They were ac- 
customed to walks of twenty miles or more during 
a day's hunt and the early breakfast was usually 
the last bite (except plug tobacco) until night. 
The trip was across streams, pine-clad and wire- 
grass-carpeted, gently sloping hills and vales, 
through a virgin, trackless forest. Before leav- 
ing. Uncle Den had sounded the horn which hung 
from his shoulder and his seven hounds, ears flop- 
ping and mouths agape, howled and leaped around 
him in answer, suspending In the excitement their 
regular job of scratching fleas. Now on the trip 
they were kept carefully in leash, lest their baying 
give the alarm, or they get away on a premature 
chase. 

Those older men knew all the habits of the 
deer, and Old Sam had been seen on the range 
the day before. The dogs were to be put In 
where the big bay, rich in Its store of juicy cane 
shoots, joined the swamp of the creek proper. 
They would drive up the bay, a man on either 
side, to Its head and there the deer would almost 
surely break cover and run across the range of 



A Deer Drive in the Old Days 197 

hills to another bay which emptied into the War- 
rior. (These "bays" or "heads" were short 
branches from the main stream, thick with under- 
brush.) The deer often fed along these, either 
on tender grass outside the brush, or on the cane 
shoots when the growth was young. It was al- 
ways possible that the deer would break cover 
before reaching the head of the bay, but their 
"runs" were well known, and they usually fol- 
lowed the same route. 

One of the men with a rifle was sent to the east 
side of the head; the recruit with the carbine to 
the west. The other two came up on either side 
of the bay, opposite the dogs, whose deep voicing 
soon announced a fresh trail. The recruit took 
the "stand" assigned him, between two towering 
pines, which gave shade and cover. The others 
had waited until he had time to reach the place, 
and now he had nothing to do but wait. 

Afar off came the indistinct baying of the dogs ; 
now growing nearer, then more distant as the 
trail doubled. The sun slowly climbed toward 
the zenith, the malignant yellow flies kept one 
hand busy; a few ripe blue huckleberries on a 
bush near by afforded a pleasant interlude. For 
hours he stood; would they never come? The 
dogs must have lost the trail, for he heard no bay- 
ing now. Tired of standing, he was easing down 
to a squatting posture when the sharp crack of 



19B Saturday Night Sketches 

a rifle rang out far down the bay. A moment 
or two later, the double boom of the shotgun 
sounded. 

Pshaw I and then some ! The deer had broken 
cover and Uncle Den and Lum had them! The 
sport was over for the day. A moment later he 
heard a halloo. It was one of warning, but he 
thought It a call to join the others, and turned 
and hurried toward them. 

His mind Intent only on what he thought they 
had killed, he paid little attention to a rustling In 
the bushes near. A moment later he almost ran, 
face to face, against a giant buck! The animal 
had broken through the screen of bushes, and deer 
and youth saw each other about the same moment. 
He stopped for the time motionless; the deer the 
same, with head erect and nostrils dilating. The 
animal recovered first and wheeled to run; which 
reminded the youth that he had a gun. Hastily 
bringing it to bear, his knees knocking with the 
well-known "buck-ague," he took sight at the rap- 
Idly moving deer, running straight from him, and 
fired. 

As much to his astonishment as that of the deer, 
the buck turned a somersault at the crack of the 
gun and lay sprawling. Shouting for Uncle Bull 
(the man on the other side of the head), the 
youth ran up with drawn knife to cut the deer's 
throat. He seized the antlers and started to cut, 




KLCK-AC.UK 



A Deer Drive in the Old Days 199 

but at the touch of the knife the buck, with a flirt 
of his head, sent the youth spinning, and sprang 
to his feet. The ball had struck him back of the 
head, between the horns, and while turning him a 
somersault, did little further hurt. 

As the youth caught his balance and turned, the 
buck, his eyes blazing, came at him in full charge. 
Well the lad knew that once those sharp hoofs 
or keen-pointed antlers reached him, he would be 
cut to ribbons. Too many dogs had he seen after 
they had been riddled with the same weapons, for 
the buck was too large to be anything but Old 
Sam. 

His gun empty, the youth sought safety in 
flight; but the deer was quicker. The antlers al- 
most touching him, the youth dodged around a 
tree, and then for a minute — a minute as long as 
a lifetime — they had it; both circling the tree, the 
deer almost at the lad's heels, but he with strain- 
ing muscles and bulging eyes was putting every 
ounce of strength into an effort to escape with life. 

The race would soon have been over and the 
youth's career as a hunter ended had not at that 
moment the lead dogs. Queen and Rover, burst 
from the bushes at full cry, just as Uncle Bull, 
having heard the shout of triumph, came around 
the head. 

At the buck the dogs dashed, and as he turned 
to paw them, the youth struck him with all his 



200 Saturday Night Sketches 

force across the forehead with his carbine. 
Stunned, the buck fell, and before he could re- 
gain his feet Uncle Bull ran up and drove a long, 
spring-back knife behind his shoulders. While 
the youth was still gasping for breath Uncle Den 
and Lum, whose shots had slightly wounded the 
animal, came up just in time to be in at the deatli. 

It was after the buck had been strung up and 
disemboweled, that the youth had to submit to 
be "blooded," a ceremony considered absolutely 
necessary when the first deer was killed. 

But the prize was worth the price, even the 
scare and narrow escape, for the antlers went 
down through the family as an heirloom, together 
with one of those strange stones called "bezel" 
only rarely found in the stomachs of old deer, 
and which were supposed to have the power of 
curing rabies. 

There are no deer there now, for what was 
then a range is now cultivated fields; Uncle Bull 
and Uncle Den, Lum, Queen and Rover, are long 
since gone to their different rewards; the youth- 
ful hunter is a grandfather and hunts no more; 
but still many times in the silent watches of the 
night, when the nightmare rides, he sees those 
blazing eyes and dilated nostrils, and again he 
"hot-foots" for his life around the bole of a slen- 
der pine. 



THE HOMEFOLKS DANCE 

"Cheeks like a cherry — cherry like a rose; 
How I love Lucinda, God Almighty knows." 

The mellow notes of the violin, the tapping of 
the straws were accompanied by the sound of trip- 
ping feet. Through the open door of the cottage, 
across the grass-carpeted valley and over the pine- 
clad hills, bathed in the soft moonlight, the sounds 
floated, to set the blood dancing; or mellowed to 
a plaintive sweetness. 

With his chair tipped back against the facing 
of the wide fire-place, from which glowing pine- 
logs lighted the scene, the violinist sat, his head 
bent reverently over the centuries old instrument 
from whose depths he was drawing the best there 
is in music. The contour of his face, the Roman 
nose and flowing white beard, formed almost an 
exact picture of Longfellow. The poetry of his 
soul breathed out through his violin. 

Three decades before he had come to this pine- 
barren wilderness a young man of wealth and of 
an old and revered family; his acres were num- 
bered in thousands and his stock ranged many 

201 



202 Saturday Night Sketches 

hills. Now the only possessions left him, except 
his family, were the priceless Stradivari whose 
curve was tucked beneath his chin, and the trusty 
rifle which rested on a rack of deer-antlers above 
his head. His skill was as renowned for one as 
for the other. 

The cottage was built neatly and substantially 
of the material ready to hand — pine logs, by the 
labor of his sons. At the foot of the hill to the 
east flowed the Warrior, its waters alive with fish, 
Its swamp abounding In wild turkey and deer. 
Around, for many miles, there was only the pine 
forest, almost trackless, indistinct trails leading 
to the homes of the nearest neighbors. It was a 
goodly land, although a wild one. In keeping with 
his own untamed, eagle spirit to which this man 
had brought the Ideals of youth. 

At his knee, keeping time with bounding straws 
to the notes from the bow, sat his son, one in 
whom the soul of the musician dwelt, as in the 
father. Even as he taps, the music In him must 
find expression, and the "straw-man" hums: 

"/ wouldn't marry a weeping girl. 

And I'll tell you the reason why: — 
Her nose is always dripping, 

And her cheeks are never dry." 

Sitting In a chair tilted back against the facing 
of one of the doors another son called the figures 



The Homefolks Dance 203 

of the quadrille, to which the four couples were 
dancing. 

The ladies were the mother and her three 
daughters, the youngest just rounding into woman- 
hood. From the parent was inherited the love 
of music which found ready expression in the 
dance. Like the mother, they were graceful, their 
movements, poetry in motion ; to watch them was 
an inspiration. 

The dance of that day was accounted no harm 
among the secular classes. The "church-folks," 
members of any church, did not dance at all. They 
were not asked to dance by those who knew, al- 
though the younger ones were often invited to 
homes where dances were held, they were not ex- 
pected to participate. The dances of those days 
were different from those of to-day. There was 
no personal contact except the mere touching of 
hands in the swing and promenade. Certainly, 
there was nothing impious, nothing irreverent in 
the dance in progress then. No abandon, but the 
expression in action of the spirit of music. 

The young men gathered for the Saturday night 
dance which had grown to be a custom in this 
home, had walked many miles, after the week's 
work was over, for the enjoyment that made wear- 
iness forgotten. For many hours, until midnight 
approached, and even youth grew weary, the dance 



204 Saturday Night Sketches 

went on, with changing partners, the inexhaustible 
repertoire of the violinist furnishing a variety that 
never cloyed. 

Few are left now to remember the scene of that 
night long ago. The home is gone, the pine forest 
and wiregrass have yielded place to cultivated 
fields; the game is gone, the patriarch and hunter 
long since gathered to his fathers. The mother 
and oldest daughter sleep at old Kimball; two 
daughters are settled matrons. One of the young 
men of the four dancers has long since "heard the 
call" and is numbered with the most earnest, zeal- 
ous and efficient leaders among the Master's work- 
ers in Wiregrass Georgia ; another before he died 
was a leader in financial affairs and a man of 
means; another now numbers his farms by the 
hundred plows and writes his check in five fig- 
ures; another was bitten by the newspaper bug, 
and never amounted to much. 

As we close our eyes the scene comes again, as 
of forty years ago — the flickering firelight, the 
figures swiftly changing in the measures of the 
dance, the aged violinist and his pupil at his feet. 
As the vision comes, the noise of the street out- 
side softens and changes; again there sounds the 
mellow tones of the violin, the rhythmic tapping 
of the straws, the light tripping of nimble feet, 
the sing-song voice calling the quadrille : 

And as we listen, the fiddler raises his head and 



The Home folks Dance 205 

smiles; his bow is poised, and the tune changes to 
the good-night measure : 

"Run along, John, or I'll tell your daddy, 
The way you've been a-courtin' ." 



THE REVIVAL'S CLOSE 

"Jesus, lover of my soul, 
Let me to thy bosom fly." 

On the warm air of the summer morning the 
notes of Wesley's immortal song echoed from the 
pine-clad hillsides. It was sung to the tune dear 
to the believer of forty years ago, from strong 
lungs, with the power of faith, and with it carried 
inspiration. 

Grouped near the small stream, the congrega- 
tion stood. Around them the wiregrass spread, a 
carpet almost endless, underneath the shadowing 
pines of a forest little broken for many miles. 
The mighty silences of the deep woods surround- 
ing accented and lent force to the notes of the 
song. At the foot of the hill ran a small stream, 
one of its bends giving the necessary depth for the 
present use. 

Near the water's edge a dressing-room had been 
improvised of gum poles and blankets. The work 
had been done by the loving hands of fathers and 
brothers, who now stood by, while the mother 
and female friends aided in the final preparations. 

206 



The Revival's Close 207 

From the room a maiden stepped. Clad in 
white, fit emblem of the spotless soul that day 
consecrated to its Maker, blushing as the hundred 
eyes centered on her, but strong in the faith that 
had led her to Jordan's brink, she walked to the 
water's edge and gave to the preacher her hand, 
as she had already given to God her heart. And 
as the congregation sang: 

''There is a fountain filled with blood," 

she sank beneath the waters, to arise to a new life 
of consecration and service. 

For two weeks the preacher had labored. He 
was not a scholarly man, but he was an earnest 
man. He expounded the Word as given him, and 
his own sincerity and deep conviction carried con- 
viction to others. During the week-days his peo- 
ple were busy in their fields, for while it was mid- 
summer, the work must go on. But at "early 
candle-light" they gathered, and from the pulpit 
of rude pine boards, the priceless jewels of God's 
message were given them. The little church, sur- 
mounting a lonely hilltop in the depths of the for- 
est, was of logs, the walls unceiled, but the Spirit 
was there, for the Lord loves humble things. 

Each night, or week-end days, many horse-carts 
or ox-carts and a few buggies and wagons were 
grouped outside, the animals tethered to the pines; 
and the number increased. 



2o8 Saturday Night Sketches 

The Spirit was present, but those people were 
slow of action. At last the crowning moment 
came when this maiden, a daughter of a family 
of wide influence and repute, was converted and 
gave her soul and life to Jesus. Neither father 
nor mother were "church folks"; her brothers 
were brave and manly, but wild and reckless; she 
the only daughter and youngest child, was the 
family idol. Many thought there would be pa- 
rental objection, but not so. Instead, father, 
mother and brothers gave her every aid and en- 
couragement, and stood by wet-eyed, during the 
beautiful ceremony. 

This over, back the congregation drove a mile 
to the little church. And there a blessing almost 
Pentecostal, came. The preacher, small in stature 
and homely in dress, was inspired, and the words 
which fell from his lips were as electric currents. 

The Spirit hovered; it could be felt in the air. 
As one patriarch and father in Israel after an- 
other arose and testified to God's greatness and 
mercy, women wept as women must ever weep, 
and the faces of strong men quivered with emo- 
tion. For there was rejoicing in all hearts that 
the young eyes had seen the light and that the 
young feet had been led into paths of peace. 

Nearly half a century has rolled by since then. 
The maiden grew to womanhood, took on herself 
the duties of wifehood and accepted the responsi- 



The Revii>al's Close 209 

billties of motherhood. Long since, after a Hfe 
of great usefulness, she has gone to greet the loved 
ones gone before. 

Even now, with quiet and closing eyes, comes 
back the feeling of uplift and inspiration; the 
green woods and the murmuring stream, the emo- 
tion-drawn faces of the singing crowd — for the 
good and great things of life never die — they are 
a part of Jesus: 

"Thou of life the fountain art 

Freely let me take of thee; 
Spring thou up within my heart, 
Rise to all eternity!" 



THE DOWNFALL OF A MILLIONAIRE 

"I was a millionaire only once in my life," said 
Charlie, as he took a small swig of "H. and H.," 
licked his lips appreciatively, and turned the glass 
around slowly, gazing at the liquid. "I made it 
on cotton, and I lost it the same day." 

We were sitting around a polished table in the 
Seminary Club, drowning our sorrows in sarsa- 
parilla, ginger ale, lemon soda, etc., after a trying 
day in which a drop in the cotton market had 
caught several of us "with our suspenders off," 
so to speak. Three refillings with his favorite 
sarsaparilla had put Charlie in a mood sad and 
sentimental, so he grew reminiscent. 

"Dad gave us boys what we could make the first 
year on forty acres of sassafras hummock land 
to clear it up. There were three of us, and we 
went at it early in the spring like Germans after 
a Pole. I bet we sweat four hogsheads apiece 
that summer if it had been measured; enough brine 
to pickle ten bull yearlings. We piled the sassa- 
fras roots in long rows as high as this table and 
as long as Peachtree street. The terraces we 
throwed up looked like Somme trenches. 

210 



The Downfall of a Millionaire 211 

"But we made a pretty good crop and I got a 
bale of cotton for my part. The other boys 
wanted us all to go in together and buy a piece 
of land in Florida, but I bucked. I had never 
had any money in my life before beyond a quar- 
ter at the time and I wanted to keep that for 
awhile to hear it rattle. 

"I hauled the cotton to the gin, by myself, and 
then carried it to Atlanta. The market was good, 
and I got forty-five dollars for it. Made the man 
give me the money in silver and dollar bills, and 
it made some wad! I wouldn't have swapped 
places with Vanderbilt or Jay Gould, and the won- 
der is that my skull didn't crack under the strain. 

"I had been planning off and on all the fall what 
I would buy with the cotton money, but now I had 
it, I didn't want to buy anything. Perhaps after 
a while I would buy out a gold mine, or a city 
block, or a department store, or something like 
that, but just now I didn't want a thing but to 
stand around with the plutocrats and feel rich 
pains. 

"Around town I wandered for some time, in 
an ecstasy of happiness, looking at everything with 
the thought that I could buy it if I wanted to. I 
really felt sorry for ordinary people, who didn't 
have much money, and wondered if they could tell 
that I was a man of wealth just by looking at 
me? Every now and then I would rattle my 



212 Saturday Night Sketches 

silver or feel my roll, just to make sure the whole 
thing wasn't a dream. 

"Finally, in my perambulations I strolled into 
an auction room down on Decatur street. There 
was a considerable crowd around, and the fellow 
that ran It was on to the job. I stood way back 
on the outer edge of the crowd, with my thumbs 
in the armholes of my vest, just looking on at 
the poor folks buy. No; I didn't want a thing. 

"After a while, I saw the boss fellow cut his 
eye at me, and I know now that he then sized me 
up as his meat. He didn't say anything or do 
anything — then. BImeby, he reached down in his 
box and brought out what I thought was the pret- 
tiest thing I ever saw. It was a watch as big as 
a door-knob, and it glittered so it hurt my eyes. 

" 'This has been a good day,' the fellow said, 
'and I want to offer the grand prize of all, this 
matchless $150 watch, of solid Brazilian gold, 
works from Switzerland, and the handsomest piece 
of jewelry ever brought to the South. It is the 
gem of my entire stock, and I bought it for my 
own use. But I can't afford it. I am going off 
after a new stock soon and I must have money, 
so I am going to close a good day's business by 
practically giving this priceless timepiece to my 
customers.' 

"There was a lot more rot like that, and when 
he said that the watch was a fit pocket-piece for 



The Downfall of a Millionaire 213 

a millionaire, he caught me, for then he was talk- 
ing about my class. To cinch the thing he said 
he'd let the hide go with the tallow, reached down 
again and brought out a chain that would have 
pulled in a saw-log. When he hung it onto the 
watch and draped it across the front of his vest, 
it looked like a clear sunset after a summer storm. 
That bait landed the sucker. 

"When the bidding started, I staid out until it 
got to about $10. Then I dropped in, raising a 
dime at a time, until finally at $25 all dropped 
out but me and another fellow that I know now 
was the side-partner. He kept raising me, and 
by that time my fighting blood was up and every 
time the auctioneer would turn to me I would 
raise him another dime. Finally, at $38.60, the 
prize was mine. I felt like King Solomon when 
they put the buffalo robe on him. 

"I was too rich to walk away just then, and 
before I escaped the auctioneer brought out just 
the thing he said I needed to go with the watch 
and chain. It was a banjo. He said all the girls 
would be crazy about a handsome young man with 
a watch like that, and I would need something to 
entertain them with, I thought so, too, so when 
the price went to $6 the banjo changed hands. 

"If I felt hke a millionaire going, I felt like an 
emperor coming back to the wagon yard. True, 
I had only forty cents left of my bale of cotton, 



214 Saturday Night Sketches 

but what was mere money to the possession of 
untold riches? I spent ten cents more for a box 
of sardines for supper, made the man throw in 
crackers, and feasted as a king should feast. That 
night I sat up late before the fire in the wagon- 
yard house, tumping on the banjo and looking to 
see what time it was. Couldn't sleep much that 
night; was up every hour to see if the watch was 
still running. For a wonder, it was. 

"Next morning, I was up early and started 
home. For awhile I couldn't exactly make up 
my mind how I could stay in the same old room 
at home, and wondered if the folks there would 
notice the difference in my looks. After passing 
the last house going out, I took up the banjo and 
began to 'thump-tump' trying to strike a tune. I 
could just see myself with a bunch of the girls 
around me, begging for another piece, and then 
imagine how I would head the serenading parties 
that winter, on moonlight nights. Every few min- 
utes, I would pull out the watch, take it out of the 
little doeskin sack the fellow gave me, and time 
the team. 

"A little shower of rain came up, but I was used 
to it, and didn't mind. But I didn't know the 
banjo ought to be kept dry. It was a long way, 
and when the rain passed and the sun came out, 
I got sorter sleepy and dozed a little. 



The Downfall of a Millionaire 215 

**BImeby, I smelt something. I had on cop- 
peras breeches, and at first thought it was them, 
but It wasn't. Finally, I looked at my watch, and 
watch and chain were a deep, dark, but not beauti- 
ful green! The rain and the animal heat had 
done their dirty work. 

"I could have cried, but It wouldn't do any 
good. While viewing the ruins of my watch, I 
had laid the banjo behind me In the wagon, where 
the sun shone full on the wet head. As I was 
gazing on the once loved time-piece and slowly 
realizing that the auctioneer was a swindler, some- 
thing went 'bang!' and I nearly jumped off the 
wagon. I looked back. Ye shades of Midas! 
The heat had busted the banjo head, and again 
I was a poor man! 

"Sorrow turned to rage, I jerked off the watch 
and chain, picked up the banjo, and throwed both 
as far as I could send, down the steep hillside. 
Into the creek swamp. And I guess they are there 
now." 

Overcome with emotion, Charlie drowned the 
rising tears In the last of the H. and H. 

"What did you tell the homefolks?" asked the 
man on the right as he pressed the bell for the 
woolly-headed Bacchus. 

"Told 'em I was robbed. First tried to bruise 
myself up a little, but it hurt so, I just put up a 
yarn about somebody stealing the money from 



2i6 Saturday Night Sketches 

under a bundle of fodder I was using as a pillow." 

"Did they believe it?" 

"Ma did," was the answer, as the waiter came 
back. 



CANE CHEWING TIME 

Sugar cane is ripe for chewing in South Geor- 
gia. Down here in "God's country," the sugar 
cane is not the vulgar article of commerce which 
made the wealth of Havemeyers, the Spreckelses 
and their associates. Here it furnishes the juice 
which, while it inebriates not, is the delight of the 
poor, the solace of the wealthy and the comforter 
of the troubled in heart. 

It is at this season that the dinner horn has an 
added charm for the South Georgia boy. Its wel- 
come sound calls him homeward, with his cotton 
sack slung across his shoulder, his throat dry from 
the rays of the sun, husky with the dust of the 
field and the lint of the staple which he has been 
gathering. Hungry though he may be, he veers 
from the homeward path when the "c^ne patch" 
fence is neared. With eager feet he climbs the 
barrier and with discerning eye selects from the 
waiting rows the stalk promising largest yield of 
treasured sweetness. From it the blades are 
stripped with careful attention to the irritating 
fuzz and a loud snap proclaims that the treasure 
is his. 



2i8 Saturday Night Sketches 

Again to the rail fence, with careful selection 
of a panel with a flat rail on top. Then, with 
heels firmly braced In the cracks below, Ignoring 
protesting stone bruise If any there be, the ready 
Barlow knife prepares the feast. Carefully the 
peel Is removed and a "round" of juicy pulp Is 
ready. Then, while distended jaws and chin are 
uptllted to prevent waste of good cheer, the eyes 
rolled heavenward In ecstasy, the willing teeth do 
their duty and nature pays rich tribute to Industry. 
Nimble Bacchus never bore sweeter nectar to 
Jove, nor graceful slave poured more delicious 
drink for Lucullus' guests. 

Just why the chewing of sugar cane Is disap- 
pearing before modern customs It Is hard to say. 
It affords health and pleasure alike to old and 
young, where the appetite has been cultivated and 
the condition of the teeth will allow Its indulgence. 
The juice, as obtained by chewing the cane, Is a 
panacea for dyspepsia and kidney troubles and as 
a tonic and flesh builder for weak children It has 
no superior. It is at this time of the year that 
In the land of the sugar cane the child who has 
grown sallow, thin and weak during the stress and 
heat of the summer acquires flesh, rosy cheeks and 
goatlike spirits, and all trace of "worms," that 
bane of Cracker childhood, disappears. The 
sugar cane does the work. No medicine could 
accomplish the wonder In so brief a period. 



Cane Chewing Time 219 

Perhaps we no longer chew cane because we 
are too busy doing something less useful. A large 
element of our population, too, has never known 
its delight. Part of this may be due to the fact 
that much of the sugar cane put on the market is 
not the best for chewing. The cane, dark red in 
color, or red with alternate stripes of yellow, while 
sweeter is not the most desirable variety for chew- 
ing. The best has a green peel, or a peel of alter- 
nate stripes of green and yellow. This variety is 
soft and juicy, and once its taste is learned it is 
a source of delight. 

A South Georgia farmer has had an illustration 
of the public mistake in the quality of sugar cane. 
With an unusually fine crop he decided to supply 
the Atlanta market, give the people there a taste 
of real South Georgia life. At some expense he 
loaded a car with some of the finest green colored 
sugar cane ever seen in the South. But when it 
was offered for sale the Atlantans would not have 
it. Because the peel was green in color, they af- 
firmed it was not ripe and told him to take it back 
home and wait for it to turn red. 



CARRYING COTTON TO GEORGE 
SPRING'S GIN 

The wagon had been loaded the night before. 
By the light of the smoking pine torch, basket 
after basket of seed cotton had been dumped In 
and trampled down, the Man and Boy working 
until far into the night. 

When the body, of ramshackle plank, was full 
more plank were added at ends and sides, these 
held in place by boards or shingles thrust down 
into the cotton. When trampled down, the cot- 
ton would work up again as pressure was removed, 
and to obviate this, the inside of the wagon-body 
was sprinkled with water. 

At last all that the improvised body would hold 
was on, and to this was added cotton packed and 
tied up in bedsheets and piled on top, until at 
last it was guessed there was sufficient to make a 
bale that would escape the "pony," a penalty for 
all weighing less than 300 pounds (which penalty 
still exists). 

Next morning, after breakfast by early candle- 
light, the oxen were yoked to the wagon, and the 
journey to the gin begun. The road was a three- 

220 



Carrying Cotton to George Spring's Gin 221 

path trail through the pines, the air was cool, 
and the Man walked. The Boy, perched high on 
the cotton, burrowed in for warmth and wrapped 
in the quilt Mother thoughtfully provided, as he 
swung the blackgum goad and shouted to accele- 
rate the oxen's speed. Even then, the sun was 
nearing the meridian when the gin was reached. 

Ginning plants were not then the models of 
mechanical perfection that make it possible to 
market so quickly the great cotton harvest of the 
present day, although they represented the best 
of the builder's art of that time. Steam was 
little known and less used; horse and mule fur- 
nished power. The ginhouse stood eight feet clear 
of the ground on substantial posts of heart light- 
wood logs. The house proper was built of small 
pine logs, the body being only about six logs high. 
Above this was the immense roof of split pine 
boards. 

As a rule, there was only one gin, of sixteen 
to thirty saws, and this was fed by hand, the 
feeder standing in front of the breast of the ma- 
chine and distributing the cotton with his fingers. 
Below, the mechanism was a little complicated, 
even for those days. Horses were hitched to two 
long levers, and these turned an upright a foot 
in diameter, to the top of which was fastened by 
a series of set-in braces a wheel of pine surmount- 
ed with home-made iron cogs. These turned the 



222 Saturday Night Sketches 

machinery above, and operated the gin with one 
belt — ^belts being very scarce articles. It was a 
crude contrivance, but to the egg-eyed boy a won- 
derful piece of mechanism. 

On the end of each lever, behind the horse, 
was fixed a seat for the driver. Here the chil- 
dren's job came in, and two belonging to the 
owner, either boy or girl, rode all day long in 
the endless go-'round to keep the horses to their 
pace. Needless to say, these jobs were the jeal- 
ous envy of ev^ery visiting lad or lass. 

The wagon was driven up to the platform in 
front of the gin, a basket was handed down, packed 
with cotton, handed up, emptied into the stall 
or bin of the customer's regular turn, and handed 
back. So with much time and labor the cotton 
was unloaded, but time was plentiful and labor 
cheap then. When the customer's turn at the 
gin came, the cotton was again lifted in a basket 
and poured into the hopper of the gin, in reach 
of the feeder's hands. 

The seed fell underneath the gin and were 
shoveled to one side, to be left or carried away, 
at the owner's wish. Being considered of no 
value, they were usually left on the ginner's hands, 
except for a small quantity needed for planting. 
In the course of the season a pile of seed could 
be seen out near the gin-house resembling the 
piles of saw-dust at the lumber mills of a later 



Carrying Cotton to George Spring's Gin 223 

day, or the straw piles behind a threshing ma- 
chine in the wheat country. 

There were no condensers then, and the lint 
flew like snowflakes from the gin into the al- 
most airtight room built for it of plank, then 
very scarce. Here, the bale finished, it was again 
packed in baskets and carried on the shoulders 
of the gin help, up a flight of steps, and packed, 
by trampling feet, into the box of the big press. 
Those carrying the lint, and the two trampling 
it in the press-box were so covered with the white 
flakes that neither clothes nor features were easily 
distinguishable. 

The cotton-press was another master-piece of 
the builder of that day. The gin-house was a 
mammoth structure, so substantial that it was 
first refuge in case of storm or threatened disas- 
ter to the home dwelling, and usually on a hill 
could be seen for a mile or more, but the press 
towered many feet above it. 

Built of substantial timbers, foundation and up- 
rights, the lower box must be of a cotton bale 
capacity, while the upper box must hold enough 
lint, trampled down with the foot, to press into 
a bale. The screw was of wood, ten or twelve 
inches in diameter, and to cut one from a heart 
pine with a chisel was considered the supreme 
test of a carpenter's capability. And a test it 
was, for the endless flanges must be perfect. These 



2 24 Saturday Night Sketches 

screws were usually about twenty feet long, and 
after being cut were tallowed until they worked 
smoothly. 

Above the screw, two long levers came to- 
gether in the shape of an "A." The apex was 
covered with a roof of pine boards, to protect 
screw and press; to the levers extending nearly 
to the ground the horses were brought from the 
gin and hitched, starting again in their endless 
mill, each trip around the circle bringing the screw 
with the packer beneath down upon the cotton. 
The sight of the roof at the apex of the levers 
turning slowly around was one the lad viewing 
for the first time would not soon forget. When 
the cotton-box was full, the ends of the levers 
were many feet above terra firma, but the 
drivers would climb to their perches and slowly 
descend as the revolutions brought the big screw 
down on the cotton until the ends of the levers 
brushed the ground. 

The bagging already had been laid, top and 
bottom, in the press, and now the ties, redolent 
with the odor of coal oil, then unfamiliar and 
rather pleasant, were thrust into place, in much 
the same manner as to-day, fastened, and the bale 
rolled out. 

Slow and laborious process, you say; but in 
this way the staple that made the Old South the 
richest country in the world and brought upon 



Carrying Cotton to George Spring's Gin 225 

it the jealous envy that always follows the pros- 
perous, was prepared for market. When you 
read of the millions of bales produced annually, 
nearly half a century ago, it is well to remember 
that each one had to go through the process of 
much handling of which a description is herein 
attempted. 

The Boy, perched upon the bale and homeward 
bound in the late afternoon, had seen many won- 
derful things — wonders whose impress not even 
the mighty achievements of modern science have 
been able to efface. 

And the trip was the only one for that year, 
for one bale was considered sufficient; not all of 
the cotton went into that bale, for enough had 
been saved to supply Mother's knitting needles 
for the year and an occasional trip to Grandma's 
loom. 

But In the twilight, as the oxen hurried on the 
homeward path, there were images of wealth of 
the Indies to come when the bale went to market; 
visions of a new hat, of squeaking shoes, of a tie 
of brilliant red, perhaps even a can of cove oysters, 
and other things of the riches that a bale of cotton 
meant. 



FOURTH OF JULY IN THE OLDEN TIME 

"Oh, Lordy, Ma; Jack Kilcrease has drunk 
seventeen cups o' coffee, and now it's all gone." 

The plaintive wail of the bereaved caused some 
of the eaters nearby to turn their heads and look, 
but their attention was brief. Four or five deep, 
they stood by long lines of tables, the men outside, 
the women inside, with hands full of barbecued 
meat and cornbread, jaws working, and pocket- 
knives cutting from time to time liberal portions 
to supply the vacancy the expanded swallows 
created. 

The one feature of the festival of forty years 
ago in which time has wrought little change is 
the barbecue. There is a difference in detail now, 
but the essentials are about the same as half a 
century gone. 

Then there was not much of a display of Old 
Glory, for too many men were alive to whom the 
flag brought unpleasant memories; but the speech 
was pretty much the same; the barbecue almost 
the same — only the people were different. 

The beeves, the hogs, the goats and the sheep 
had been killed the day before, and brought in 

226 



Fourth of July in the Olden Time 227 

by the contributors during the afternoon. In the 
long pits fires of oak wood, hauled from a dis- 
tant grove, had been burning all day; now a bed 
of embers glowed their length. Near by there 
was a burning heap of oak logs, to replace the 
coals from time to time. 

On spits of oak laid across the pits, the meat 
rested — usually a quarter of beef cut in half; a 
hog, sheep or goat split lengthwise. Under this, 
all night the fires were kept going, the meat being 
turned occasionally as it slowly cooked. It was 
this deliberate, gradually broiling process, that 
gave the barbecue its flavor. From time to time 
the chief cook's first assistant passed up one side 
and down the other of the pits, and with a mop 
on a short handle basted the roasting meat from 
a bucket containing salt, pepper, and various sea- 
soning condiments. For barbecue in those days 
was seasoned in the cooking. 

All night long the cooks kept their vigil, for 
constant supervision was the price of well-cooked 
meats, and on the cook the success of the day de- 
pended. 

Many were the yarns told — principally per- 
sonal recollections of the war just passed, for 
usually it was veterans who were supervising the 
cooking — during the night around the fire. When 
morning came, the cooks were gaunt-faced and 
egg-eyed, but their task was not done, for the meat 



228 Saturday Night Sketches 

must be cooked up to the hour the tables were 
placed, and then the fire withdrawn just in time 
to allow the meat to cool enough to cut. 

About nine o'clock the crowd began to arrive. 
They came in buggies, a few in two-horse wag- 
ons, but a great many In horse-carts, the man on 
the horse, the family balanced In the cart over the 
axle; still others on horseback, but a great many, 
hundreds in fact, on foot, for little was thought 
of a ten-mile walk in those days. 

After each newcomer had made a round of in- 
spection of the barbecue pits, each expressing his 
opinion of how it ought to be done, they gathered 
under the shade of the pines, to swap gossip and 
neighborhood news, trade horses, or crack jokes. 

There was a lemonade stand with its hard- 
worked force, for ice had been hauled many miles, 
at great expense, and the weak compound was 
swallowed more for the cooling "kick" than for 
any ingredients it was supposed to contain. Of 
watermelons there were none, for they did not 
ripen so early then. 

Near the stand were many boys, with long 
breeches and watering mouths, gazing on what 
they had not the money to buy. They had been 
the rounds of the pits. Inhaling the savory odor 
of the cooking meats until hunger drove away 
even the smart from bare feet that had incau- 
tiously stepped on live coals. 



Fourth of July in the Olden Time 229 

Only too close by was the grocery, where 
stronger liquors were sold, and where later in 
the day a row started which afterwards bereaved 
two families. 

A small platform had been built, covered with 
brush and floored with borrowed plank. Here 
the orator of the day held forth. The Fourth of 
July speech then was much the speech of to-day. 
The tail feathers of the eagle were yanked until 
the bird of freedom screamed, and the adherents 
of the more or less famous politician applauded 
according to their devotion or enthusiasm, liquid 
or mental, while the urchins looking on and un- 
derstanding not, wished he would quit, so dinner 
could come. The babies cried, the young folks 
courted, a group near by laughed at a joke, sundry 
matrons swapped confidences and dipped snuff — 
all within plain hearing of the speaker, who 
heroically stuck to the job. 

Everything must end, and at last the speaking 
was over. Up from the pits, tubs and cedar pig- 
gins of the meat were carried and distributed 
along the tables, these innocent of even paper 
covering. There was no Brunswick stew in those 
days; no pickles, nor trimmings, but the cue was 
there in abundance for every man to eat his fill, 
and for many of the provident to carry off a sup- 
ply against the day to come. 

The housewives had brought great stacks of 



230 Saturday Night Sketches 

pone cornbread — there was no baker's bread to 
be had — and this was cut and distributed with the 
meats. Then the wives brought forward trunks 
and baskets and from these what looked like an 
inexhaustible supply of good things to eat, and 
added them to the cue on the tables. Many could 
not miss, even for a meal, the cup of coffee, and 
to supply them, pots had been set on the coals near 
the pits until their contents boiled. It was when 
he diminished the supply in sight that a thirsty 
citizen provoked the boy to protest. 

Those people did not know much of the deli- 
cacies, but they brought to the meal appetites of 
plowhands and the digestions of rail-splitters. It 
was no small task to feed them but the men in 
charge knew what to provide for, and at last they 
were fed. Then hot-foot for the well, and crowd 
and push for the water that after all is the only 
perfect quencher of thirst. 

After dinner, the speaker gone, the platform 
gave place to the fiddlers, the straw-beaters, the 
caller and the dancing couples. Despite the July 
heat, despite the perspiration that made rags of 
the home-laundered shirts and collars and caused 
the color to " run" in many a beloved calico dress, 
until the shades of evening drove them home, the 
dancing went on, ever-changing individuals, but 
the same thing in form. There we leave them, the 
old folks hitching up for the homeward journey, 



Fourth of July in the Olden Time 231 

the young folks still stepping lively to the jingling 
tune of the "Arkansaw Traveler," or one of his 
many kindred, or: 

"Johnny, get your hair cut, hair cut, hair cut, 
Johnny, get your hair cut, shave and shine, 
Johnny, get your hair cut, hair cut, hair cut; 
Johnny, get your hair cut, just like mine." 



HELPING GRANNY MAKE SOAP 

It was soap-making day. Granny was doing 
the work, and the Boy was bossing the job. 

A fire of dead pine sap was burning under the 
big iron wash-pot out in the back yard, near the 
well. Near by was the wash-shelter — four light- 
wood posts set upright, across pine poles, and on 
these boards laid. Back of the shelter, fed by 
rich suds, was the big pomegranate bush, and near 
it a luxuriant growth of cane reeds, with long, 
waving white and green striped blades. 

Into the pot the due proportion of water had 
been poured and in this the lye dissolved. For 
this Grandpa had cut the wood back on the edge 
of the creek swamp ; it had been burned kiln fash- 
ion, the ashes carefully gathered and dripped in 
the big lye-hopper which stood beside the log 
smokehouse. These drippings formed the lye 
which was now put to domestic use. With the 
lye into the pot went the grease, this time "crack- 
lings" — fat trimmings from the hogs killed the 
winter before, the lard dried out and only the 
crisp, cooked flesh squeezed as long as it would 
yield a drop, left. Some of the cracklings were 

232 



Helping Granny Make Soap 233 

used for corn pone "fatty bread," the remainder 
saved for soap. 

Over the pot as it boiled Granny stood, at first 
skimming the top until all foreign substances were 
out, then stirring it with her battling stick, occa- 
sionally lifting the stick on high until the liquid 
adhering thereto had a chance to cool. Touch 
and taste were both brought into service to judge 
when the soap was ready. For soap-making was 
a work requiring an expert. Cooked too long, it 
crumbled and was useless; not enough, and it was 
too soft. Just right, the fire was drawn, and it 
was left to cool in the pot. When cool, it was 
hard enough to cut into sections with a case-knife 
and was laid up on a shelf in the smokehouse 
until needed. This soap was not only used for 
toilet purposes but for laundry as well — at least 
we call them toilet and laundry now — then they 
were hand and face washings, and the wash-pot 
and tub. 

Under the shade of the big peach-tree the Boy 
was also busy — fashioning from cornstalk foot- 
soldiers and cavalrymen with a barlo borrowed 
from Uncle Jack. Cornstalks are soft; cut into 
sections they make ideal bodies for men and 
horses, the flinty peel affording just the stuff 
wanted, easily worked, for carving legs and arms 
— even muskets and sabers. Also, a long joint, 
with a knot on either end, flattened on one side 



234 Saturday Night Sketches 

and the pith removed was just the thing for a 
feed-and-water-trough. 

Granny and the Boy were busy as bees, and 
when there came a hail at the gate, far across the 
yard and in front of the big house, neither was 
pleased. The soap was just in the making, and 
Granny could only spare time to peep around the 
crepe myrtle bush that obstructed her view of the 
gate. Nobody was in sight. Thinking she was 
mistaken. Granny went on with her soap-making. 

"Hello!" again the voice called. 

Again Granny laid aside her battling-stick, and 
this time stepping well around the crepe myrtle, 
took a good look. 

Still no one did she see. 

"It's them plague-taked boys, hollering and 
then hiding to scare me," Granny said, referring 
to two grandsons who were none too good for 
such tricks. "I won't let 'em bother me," and 
she turned her attention to her soap. 

"Hello!" again the voice came. 

"Hell high, and pass by!" Granny returned, 
touching her index finger to the dripping battling- 
stick and tasting to see if the soap was done. 

"And don't skin your shins," the Boy added, 
pegging a cavalryman to his horse. 

For awhile there was a dead silence — one of 
the kind that bring premonition of something 
wrong. 



Helping Granny Make Soap 235 

"Hello!" this time the voice was choking, and 
something in it unfamiliar sent Granny on the long 
walk to the gate. And there, previously shut from 
her view by one of the big catalpa trees which 
stood on either side of the gate, a man sat on his 
horse, rocking with laughter. He had ridden forty 
miles to see Grandpa on business, and was bright 
enough of wit to appreciate the joke he had on 
Granny. 

For a few minutes, the bright, warm sunlight 
of noonday went dark for Granny. Then the hos- 
pitality which was second nature asserted itself; 
she had the stranger dismount, put up his horse 
and sit on the broad piazza of the big house until 
the men-folks came in from the field, while she 
hurried to put on biscuit for dinner. 

But that pot of soap was a total loss. For the 
only time in her life. Granny forgot one. And 
never again did she call in answer to a gate hail 
until she saw beyond doubt who was there. The 
stranger remained two days. He teased Granny 
at every meal, and she could only smile. 



AN OLD TIME FIRE-HUNT 

"Shine 'em eye, boss ; shine 'em eye, right da' I" 
loudly whispered the excited negro. 

Around, the blackness of night was as a wall. 
Overhead, even the sky was dark, only the nearer 
stars showing a faint glimmer. The Boy stood 
with rifle on half-cock; in front a negro lad about 
his own age, carrying the family frying pan filled 
with lightwood splinters, whose blaze lighted a 
small space around them. In front a few yards 
staring out of the wall of blackness, two balls glis- 
tened, reflecting the rays of the light. They were 
the eyes of a deer, and the wide space between 
told the experienced that the owner was a big buck. 

The two boys were fire-hunting. It was "dark 
nights" and the deer were fat with the grasses of 
late summer. The deer of those days were curi- 
ous animals. If not aroused too soon from sleep 
in the early night, by someone carrying a bright 
light, the bucks would not run, but would stand 
with head thrown up and stare at the light until 
the hunter came within range. It was this pecu- 
liarity that made fire-hunting popular. Only two 
hunted together, one to carry the light, and this 

236 



An Old Time Fire-Hunt 237 

job usually fell upon the negro, of whom there 
was nearly always a family on every farm. But 
this kind of hunting required a knowledge of the 
deer's haunts, patience, and caution, for it would 
not do for them to hear too soon. 

The boys had made up the hunt the night be- 
fore, and during the day's plowing laid their plans. 
One quit work before night to get a supply of 
fat splinters, the other requisitioned the frying- 
pan without Mother's consent and pieced out the 
handle with a stick of wood. After supper at 
early candle-light they started. 

It was over a mile through the thick pines and 
wiregrass before the creek was reached, and a 
halt was made to light the torch. Then they pro- 
ceeded slowly, neither speaking except in whispers. 
Here was a favorite run for deer, where they came 
up the creek until near its head and then crossed 
a dividing ridge of hills to the headwaters of an- 
other creek. This ridge was a watershed between 
tributaries of rivers flowing in nearly opposite 
directions. 

The deer would perhaps be lying in a clump of 
pines on the near hillside, or in low bushes just 
outside the creek swamp. So the two made their 
way through the bottom grass between the hill- 
side and the creek. 

For two hours or more they walked, halting 
often to peer around them for the shining eyes 



238 Saturday Night Sketches 

which alone would denote the presence of a deer. 
It was nearly eleven o'clock before the warning 
whisper of the negro told the Boy that game was 
sighted. 

Carefully, for the slightest sound might frighten 
the buck, he brought his rifle up, and with a rest 
on the shoulder of the negro he drew a careful 
bead. The rifle was the old-fashioned, muzzle- 
loading kind, and the hunter had only one chance. 
At last the twin sights came into Hne with the 
black spot between the glistening eyes — the Boy 
held his breath, and pressed the trigger. 

As the rifle cracked, like a whip, the two started 
to run forward to see the result. 

"Swish!" "Bam!" "Kerplunk!" 

A 42-centimetre shell hit the fire-pan and sent 
the splinters spinning in every direction. With 
his last breath knocked out in a blood-curdling 
yell that could have been heard a mile, the negro 
was sent to earth with a shock that half-paralyzed 
him. The Boy didn't know what hit him, but he 
came to his senses in a few seconds and raised up 
on his elbow. 

The negro was lying flat on his back, and mak- 
ing good use of the breath that had just come back. 

"Oh, Lordy, massa, don't hit me no mo' ! 
Please, massa, call the yethquake off ! Oh, Lordy ! 
I ain't done nothin' and I won't do nothin' no 
mo' ! Oh, Good Lordy I don't let the yeth swaller 



An Old Time Fire-Hunt 239 

me." 

"What's the matter with you, Gabe?" the Boy 
asked, too scared himself to laugh. 

"A yethquake's come, and the world's gwlne- 
ter end," the negro pleaded; "Oh, Mos' Lord; 
hab massy on me." 

"Dry up!" said the Boy, who by this time was 
coming around to a realization of things; "there 
ain't no earthquake." 

"What wuz it, then?" the negro asked; "did 
the tree fall on us?" 

"No," was the reply, and there was sorrow in 
the voice; "I only missed the buck, and he ran 
smack over us." 

The splinters, from which the fire had been 
knocked by the shock, were now catching again, 
and setting fire to the wiregrass. This was 
stamped out, material collected and with the pan 
once more alight, they started home. Both had 
had enough hunting for that night. 

The Boy was carrying the light and walking 
swiftly ahead, keeping a lookout around that the 
direction might not be missed. They had scarcely 
gone an hundred yards when he stumbled and 
nearly fell, the pan flying from his hands. 

Looking down, he jumped straight up into the 
air when he saw the carcass of a deer. 

For some unknown reason, the buck had thrown 
up his head just as the rifle fired, and the ball, 



240 Saturday Night Sketches 

instead of hitting between the eyes, had struck 
centrally in the chest and gone through the heart. 
With the impulse known to follow such shots, the 
buck had bounded straight ahead, overturned the 
two boys, and run until the death momentum 
failed, when he had fallen in his tracks. Luckily, 
the boys had turned homeward; had they not, the 
buzzards would have had a venison feast. 

Chattering delightedly, the boys swung the car- 
cass, riddled it, tied the four feet together and 
took turns at carrying it home. 

They walked and talked, going over their start- 
ling experience, until suddenly it dawned upon 
them that they should have reached home long 
ago. Neither had a watch, but when the Boy 
stepped outside the light's radius, he could tell 
by the stars that morning was not far off. Soon, 
they came to a black stump which had a famihar 
look, and the Boy, who was carrying the deer, 
thought he remembered snuffing splinters at it half 
an hour gone. He looked; there were the coals 
— they had been traveling in a circle ! 

Then they put out the light and went on with- 
out it — something they should have done at the 
beginning, for nothing else so readily gets a pedes- 
trian lost in the woods. The Boy could easily 
tell the points of the compass by the stars, but 
he did not know in what direction home lay. Fin- 
ally, calculating by the fact that they had not 



An Old Time Fire-Hunt 241 

crossed any streams, he struck out, guided by the 
north star. A mile or more they walked. From 
the top of a hill they saw, against the horizon, a 
break in the forest. "Must be Uncle Johnny 
Ford's field," said the Boy. Uncle Johnny lived 
only a mile from their home. 

They steered for it. At last, coming out from 
the trees, instead of seeing the rail fence at the 
back of the neighbor's field, they saw their own 
front gate. They had walked around at least ten 
miles on the way home, and carried a buck which 
by that time weighed a ton! 

They were tired enough to sleep as soon as they 
hit the hay. Not even joy could keep them awake 
until the morning, which was coming over the pine 
tops in the east. 



THE SUNDAY SCHOOL CELEBRATION 

"All hail the power of Jesus' name! 
Let angels prostrate fall! 
Bring forth the royal diadem, 
And crown Him lord of all." 

Two thousand people stood to sing the opening 
hymn; out from under the immense tabernacle 
rolled the great volume of sound, drowning the 
organ accompaniment. When it was concluded, 
there was a rustle as the crowd was seated, and 
then a gray-headed patriarch, his giant frame still 
unbent with years, stepped forward to Invoke Di- 
vine guidance. 

It was the annual celebration of the county 
Sunday Schools. For a year, in season and out, 
with varying success, meeting in log schoolhouses 
or churches, in rough frame buildings, or even In 
more desolate sections at private residences, the 
tireless workers had struggled on — brave, un- 
daunted spirits, men and women who were build- 
ing nobly on the foundations for a Christian cit- 
izenship. Perhaps in extreme of winter no one 
met with them for a few weeks; perhaps they 

242 



The Sunday School Celebration 243 

took a short vacation — "winter quarters" — but 
usually where even three or four gathered to- 
gether, there was the lesson, the song and the 
prayer. Perhaps the attending children walked 
many miles along paths through the wiregrass 
beneath the pines to reach the school, perhaps 
there had been discouragement from sources 
where encouragement was expected; but one way 
or another the year and its work had passed, and 
with the coming of spring and the glorious weath- 
er of May, they were all gathered for a revival 
of spirit and the fresh impetus for the task that 
comes through co-operation. 

Their association owned its tabernacle in a cen- 
tral town; an immense wooden shelter on sub- 
stantial posts of fat pine logs, the seats of pine 
boards, the ground covered with sawdust. Un- 
der it now was a great fluttering of fans, a scent 
of cinnamon and Hoyt's cologne, augmented by 
an occasional whiff of hair oil. Girls in cool 
white or bright colors in lawns and muslins; boys 
in striped seersucker (of varying length, accord- 
ing to the number of washings), and beside them 
the sober garments of the men and women of 
maturer years. 

Outside as far as the eye could see, stood teams 
and vehicles of varying character according to the 
owner's means, from the humble ox-cart to the 
glistening carriage and pair; besides these, many 



244 Saturday Night Sketches 

hundreds came on the excursion trains operated 
from either direction. To the south, the cold 
drink and refreshment stands, operated by the 
association to capacity all day. 

There were reports from each school, the su- 
perintendent of even the most remote having his 
brief moments before the crowd. Then an ad- 
dress, or maybe two, from men of scholarly at- 
tainments and devotion to the work, who will- 
ingly left their homes and duties in neighboring 
cities to contribute to the day's good things. More 
singing, by different schools, or by the audience 
as a whole, and then dinner! 

Tables formed the outer open walls of the 
tabernacle. On these was ample room for the 
cloths and the bounteous picnic spread. The 
chicken was there, in multitude and abundance; 
also in salad, pie, roast and fry. Cold boiled ham 
from the home smokehouse, beef roast, 'cued, 
dried and fried; pork, pickles, sauces, salads, ad 
libitum. And cake — of every color, flavor and 
design, but all good. Who could eat one of those 
dinners and ever forget? Best of all, the whole- 
hearted hospitality; few ate at their own table 
alone, but roamed through the crowd, chatting and 
tasting here and stopping there, as sure of a wel- 
come as would be the visitor to his or her own 
spread. 

After dinner, an hour for the thirsty to drown 



The Sunday School Celebration 245 

it as best they may ; for the young people to court 
and giggle and laugh, as youth will; for older 
ones to exchange news and gossip, and for the 
associational heads to rearrange their plans for 
the afternoon. 

To get such a crowd together after the noon 
meal required a magnet, but the man and the oc- 
casion met in R. B. Reppard, a Savannah lumber- 
man, a godly man, whose great heart could scarce- 
ly hold his love for the children of that day and 
the Sunday school cause. Reppard could collect 
a crowd quicker and get it interested easier than 
any man of his time. He could make five hun- 
dred children hold their breath while he told a 
story and drove home a lesson that would remain 
through the years as a golden line on memory's 
tablet. He has gone long since to meet the chil- 
dren he directed on the way. 

Then, the crowning event of the day, the sing- 
ing contest for the association's blue and silver 
banner, which had waved its graceful folds all 
day over the school victorious in the contest of the 
year before. 

Each school selected its song and its leader, but 
all participating must be bona fide members. The 
judges, whose task was a hard one, were always 
selected from outside the county. 

The entries were handed the president, and as 
its name was called, the school arose and sang. 



246 Saturday Night Sketches 

In front stood the leader, book in hand; the class 
selected from among the senior members. As he 
sounded the note, gave the word, and the song 
rang out, there was a burst of melody, a zip of 
harmony, a concord of trained young voices that 
put the quickest-eared judge on his or her mettle 
to pick the winner. When it was over and the 
decision announced, there was no grumbling pro- 
test, but a hearty congratulation of the winners 
on one side and a determination to get ready for 
next year on the other. 

All things, even the best things of life, come 
to an end. A happy day had been well spent, but 
the lengthening shadows, the sunbeams now across 
the tabernacle, attest approaching night, and once 
more the assembled thousands stand as one for 
the farewell song — a farewell that means a final 
parting for many; to others but au revoir until 
the cycle of time again brings May and reunion: 

"God be with you 'till we meet again; 
By His counsels guide, uphold you, 
With His sheep securely fold you, 
God be with you 'till we meet again." 



WHEN THE WIREGRASS WAS ABLAZE 

Bud stopped his plow and turned, holding the 
lines and stock with one hand, as he sniffed the 
air: "I smell grass burning," he said. 

It was early spring, and Bud with John, the 
Mexican pony horse, a grasshopper stock, home- 
made, and a turning plow, was breaking the land 
for corn. Ahead of the plow, spring laziness 
weighing like lead on his footsteps, the Boy was 
cutting the briars that had grown all too numer- 
ous since oats had been cut from the land the sum- 
mer before. Slowly, painfully up, and dispirit- 
edly down, the hoe rose and fell. The Boy all too 
gladly turned when Bud spoke. Across the field, 
the haze of spring, the air laden with the humid- 
ity of the season of gestation. Far across the 
branch and the new-ground beyond, high up above 
the circle of tree-tops, the blue of the sky was 
obscured by a whitish but discolored vapor. 
Watched, it rose in waves, steadily growing dense, 
and giving the sunshine a reddish glare. 

"It's the woods afire, and this wind is bringing 
it right in," said Bud, as he began unhitching the 
horse. Together to the house the two boys went; 

247 



248 Saturday Night Sketches 

left the horse, secured rake and hoe, and in a half 
trot hurried to the scene of danger. 

In those days, in Wiregrass Georgia, the face 
of the earth was covered with a carpet of wire- 
grass broken by small farms, trails of roads, and 
small streams. This carpet was thickened by fall- 
ing pine straw, and if left alone for a few years 
formed a heavy covering. Every spring it was 
the custom of the cattlemen to fire the woods, 
burning off the old grass that a new growth might 
spring up for early summer pasturage. Then it 
was often the case that fire was started in the 
wiregrass by careless hunters, or sometimes put 
out by boys for mischief. Once in the woods, 
these fires were a source of dread to farmers, and 
rarely a spring passed that did not see a loss of 
more or less fencing. Once under good headway, 
with a strong wind behind, hard fighting was nec- 
essary to save fencing or even homes. 

Before crossing the back fence of the new- 
ground, the boys saw their work was cut out for 
them. Across the branch head to the south on 
the crown of the opposite hill, in a long, sinuous, 
crackling line, the fire was coming in. Behind it 
was a stiff breeze, and the flames leaped forward, 
advancing almost as fast as a man could walk. 
Occasionally they flared higher, as heavier grass 
was caught; again a dead pine blazed, or the top 
of a sapling made a flaming torch. Over all hung 



When the JViregrass Was Ablaze 249 

a pall of smoke, and there was a dull roar, as 
waters at flood. 

But the boys had no time to gaze. Although 
young, they knew their work, and jumped to it. 
The chances were good that the fire could not 
cross the small branch, where there was still much 
water, but that it would have to circle around 
its head. It would be worse than foolish to wait 
for the fire to come in — the thing to do was to 
fire against it. 

From the corner of the fence to the branch, 
a few hundred yards, a string of fire was run, 
taking thirty feet at a time. Then, ten feet east 
of this, a parallel line of fire was set. This was 
done by pulling up a handful of long wiregrass 
and straw, twisting it together, lighting it and then, 
when it was ablaze, stooping low, in a run shak- 
ing the burning particles into the grass beneath. 
Soon, in two lines, the fire was blazing. The heat 
would draw the flames of each line together, and 
when they were In the act of joining, the boys by 
hard and fast work would beat out the west line 
with pine-tops, young saplings cut to convenient 
size. 

It was hot work, but soon they had a line fired 
from the corner of the fence as far down into 
the branch as it would burn. By this time, the 
incoming fire had turned the branch head, far to 
the east, and blazing high in the rich bottom grass, 



250 Saturday Night Sketches 

was sweeping in a long circle toward the fence. 
Then it was a race with the boys against fire and 
wind, down the long worm fence, running north 
and south and forming the eastern boundary of 
the farm. 

Up this fence northward they started, pursuing 
the same tactics, firing a short strip, waiting for 
the heat of the parallel fires to draw them to- 
gether, and then beating out that nearest the fence. 
Bud did the firing, hastily raking handfuls of 
straw, twisting and strewing, while behind him 
the Boy came, his pine-top rising and falling like 
a flail. 

Soon they were joined by Bill Driggers, a 
neighbor, who had seen the distant smoke and 
had come to help. Then later the Mother came, 
for all must do their bit in* time of stress. The 
Father had gone to mill — just their luck, in time 
of fire. 

Even with reinforcements, it was soon appar- 
ent that the race would be close. The big fire 
was sweeping in, with an ever-increasing roar, and 
already the advance smoke was making breathing 
difficult. But working in feverish haste, stopping 
for nothing and steadily advancing, Bill helping 
Bud and Mother the Boy, fighting for every inch, 
they made slow but steady progress. 

Finally, panting, short of breath, with smoke- 
begrimed faces and watery eyes, the north corner 



When the Wiregrass Was Ablaze 251 

of the fence was in sight. Fifty yards more and 
the fight was won. But only forty yards away, 
like a holocaust, the fire was coming in. Could 
we make it? Bud and Bill took a chance. With 
big handfuls of blazing straw they ran ahead, 
carrying the two parallel lines past the corner. 
Then they turned with pine-tops, to help the oth- 
ers whip out. 

But too late! At the critical moment, with 
nerves tense and victory in sight, came a change 
In the wind to the east, driving the oncoming 
flames, now leaping ten feet high, across the feeble 
defending line, into the fence. 

Frantically the Boy stuck, beating down the 
blazing grass until human flesh could endure no 
more, and out he ran toward fresh air, his face 
blistered, his breath coming in smoke-choked 
gasps, his eyes streaming tears, his arm thrown 
up to protect his face; weeping with wrath, the 
sting of defeat and the acrid smoke, which would 
leave its effects for days. Mother was already 
out, and a few minutes later Bud and Bill, both 
the kind who would stick to the last, staggered 
into the open. 

The fight was lost and the fence was gone. For 
a breathing spell they watched the dozen fence 
panels south of the corner blaze; then as the fire 
started down the north fence. Bud and Bill awoke 
to action again. First the east fence was torn 



252 Saturday Night Sketches 

down past the fire and the Boy sent to watch there ; 
then, not once or twice, but half a dozen times 
the north fence was torn down, only to be sur- 
rendered to the blaze. At last the fire was head- 
ed, and with Mother and the Boy on guard. Bud 
and Bill turned to the blazing trees in the field, 
which had caught from sparks from the burning 
woods. 

These dead trees were covered with sap two 
inches thick and in this fire would smoulder for 
days, only to break out at the most inopportune 
time. A slight wind would blow the sap sparks 
for an unbelievable distance. The only way to 
stop this was to cut down the trees, and at this 
the youth and man went to work, their axes soon 
ringing in unison. 

It was not until long after nightfall, the dew 
on the grass had checked the blaze and assured 
a measure of safety until morning, that all found 
surcease from effort and home was sought, where 
still the Mother had to prepare supper. After 
this was sleepily eaten, the rest that came was the 
well-earned sleep of exhaustion, into which came 
no thought of the morrow, whose tasks were its 
own. 



THE SINGING PLAY 

^'London bridge is falling down; 
Oh, girls; remember me! 
London bridge is falling down — 
So, heighof ladies, turn!" 

It was indeed "a sound of revelry by night." 
The blazing fire of lightwood knots in the wide 
stick-and-clay fireplace lighted the animated scene. 
Four couples, youths and maidens, on the floor 
were tripping nimble feet to the music of their 
own voices, led by the tall youth with the deep 
bass, who also led in the movements of the play. 
Circling around with joined hands; a sudden 
swing, turn, the boy to the left, the girl to the 
right, until each had swung the circle 'round, and 
the partners met. Then a promenade, back to 
their places, and either the same movements re- 
peated, or another song started, and the form of 
circle, swing, and promenade varied. 

Around the walls of the single-pen log house 
were seated those not engaged in the play, for 
which there was only room for one "set." The 
mothers, swapping gossip and passing around the 

253 



254 Saturday Night Sketches 

snuff-box; girls as yet of too tender age to be 
often asked as partners, children not yet overtaken 
by "Napper," and the babies — always the babies, 
either on quilt pallets or in mother's arms; some- 
times handed over to a neighbor to hold while 
the mother, still young enough to enjoy the game, 
joined a partner. 

Outside in the moonlight, under the chinaberry 
tree, sitting on the fence or leaning on the gate- 
posts, the older men smoked, yarned, or discussed 
crops and politics. Occasionally groups of young 
men, taking the air after the exercise of the play, 
laughed and chatted and teased. At the doors 
on either side of the house, looking hungrily on, 
stood bashful boys, ashamed to go in but nearly 
dying to do so, feet unconsciously patting time to 
the singing. Around the house were others, still 
less venturesome, peeping in between the cracks 
of the log walls. Occasionally one of those in 
the door, screwing his courage to the sticking- 
point, would make a break and blushing and stam- 
mering approach one of the girls inside and se- 
cure her as partner, proudly taking his place in 
the forming square or circle, jeered but deeply 
envied by his late companions. 

Jim and Mrs. Jim were "giving a party." It 
was the holiday season, the crops all in, the spring 
work still several weeks off. Around the settle- 
ment, by word of mouth, the invitation had gone, 



The Singing Play 255 

and for miles the young folks, occasionally accom- 
panied by careful parents, had assembled. Little 
was thought of a five-mile walk both ways, with 
a night's frolic in contemplation. 

It was in those days when the country dances 
were becoming less frequent. The preachers were 
getting in their work, and a majority of the young 
people belonged to the church. Church folks did 
not dance in those days in Wiregrass Georgia. 
So for the young and amusement-bent, the singing 
play was allowed (although frowned upon by the 
strict) as a vent for high spirits. Many of the 
plays were not very far removed from dances, 
"London Bridge" being very much like a cotillon, 
and another, "Twistification," to the words: 

"0/i, come along, my pretty miss; 

Oh, come along, my honey! 
Oh, come along, my sweet sugar-lump 

And we won't go home 'till Monday. 
And now I turn my sugar and tea; 

And now I turn my honey ; 
And now I turn my sugar and tea 

And now I turn my darling." 

partook very much of the form of the old Vir- 
ginia reel, the first four lines being sung to a quick 
march by the leading couple between the lines of 
the others, and the last four lines as they swung 
opposites and each other, the "sugar and tea" 



256 Saturday Night Sketches 

being the opposite and the "honey" and "darling" 
the partner. As each couple took their places at 
the foot of the line after going through, they 
were followed by the couple at the head, and as 
each trip was followed by a "promenade all," it 
will be seen that the play kept things humming. 
Everybody was supposed to sing. The singing 
play was the legitimate evolution of the kissing 
play of childhood. 

The youth who led that night is a power among 
the preachers of the gospel to-day; a godly man 
of ripe years and understanding heart; another 
is in politics; another in business. Some of the 
girls are grandmothers now, others have long 
slept, like many of their partners, in the warm 
bosom of Mother Earth beneath the mourning 
pines. But for that night the present was all 
sufficient, and even as the morning star swung 
into the horizon and the first bars of dawn fell 
athwart the sky, those going home first left a 
number still unsatiated with merriment, and the 
first part of their journey was enlivened by the 
merry notes from the house, accompanied by the 
sound of tripping feet: 

"Hands all Wound in the Irish trot; 
Hands all 'round in the Irish trot; 
Hands all 'round in the Irish trot; 
Oh, ladies fare you well!" 



THREE WATERMELONS AN UN- 
HANDY TURN 

"Help yourselves," the Ford boys said, hospit- 
ably; "take as many as you can carry for the folks 
at home." 

The Boy and Cousin Bill Bat had gone over 
to Uncle Johnny Ford's for Sunday afternoon. 
Bill had been doubly orphaned by the war just 
ended, and had been raised by his grandmother 
and a devoted friend of his hero father. Strange 
to say, the name given him here was the one by 
which he was known, and was only an abbrevia- 
tion of his Christian and surname. He despised a 
dull time, had a horror of books, and was re- 
nowned for the almost uncanny strength and ac- 
curacy with which he could hurl a pebble with his 
left hand. 

Although ostensibly a neighborhood social call, 
the objective of the Sunday visit was Uncle John- 
ny's watermelon patch. Singular that, in a coun- 
try where they would mature with little labor or 
expense, few melons were grown then — one of 
the contradictions so often met in the Cracker 
character of forty years ago. But all liked to 

257 



258 Saturday Night Sketches 

eat them and watermelons were a highly prized 
and rare luxury. 

Uncle Johnny's cattle roamed several hundred 
wiregrass-covered hills, and in the spring they 
were rounded up, assorted, young ones marked 
and branded, and the fresh cows penned for sev- 
eral weeks. After the cattle returned to the 
range, the land made rich by these pens was scoot- 
ered up, turned, and when the summer rains came, 
set with sweet potato draws. 

A bountiful crop followed, and in later years, 
corn and perhaps cotton rotated, the land having 
nothing but the original fertilization of the pen- 
ning process — there were no commercial fertiliz- 
ers to be had then. 

When the potato plants were set. Uncle Johnny 
always planted his watermelons, and when, in the 
late summer months, the ground between the high 
ridges was covered with a luxuriant growth of 
potato vines, nestling among them could be found 
hundreds of cool, delicious, succulent watermelons 
— whose superiority to the melons of the present 
day was not alone due to boyish taste and appetite. 
There was no market for them; there were more 
than the family could use, so the neighbors were 
welcome — as they would have been, were there 
only two melons to divide. 

The Ford boys met Bat and the Boy at the big 
gate, and escorted them around to the roomy 



Three Watermelons an Unhandy Turn 259 

backyard, where soon the usual game of marbles 
was in progress. Then, down to the melon-patch, 
where red, juicy hearts were split and enjoyed; 
on to the wash-hole in the big branch back of the 
field, where melons were used as buoys and after- 
wards eaten; then as the shadows lengthened, back 
to the melon-patch, where the visitors were urged 
to carry a feast to the home-folks. That was what 
led to the downfall. 

After much thumping, turning, and scraping 
with thumb-nail, Bat at last selected two of the 
biggest to be found — a daddy gray and a rattle- 
snake. The Ford boys aided the Boy to find two 
small ones which he thought he could carry. On 
his way to the fence, Bat's foot struck something 
and looking down he saw a big muskmelon, whose 
delicate odor even then caused his nostrils to di- 
late. "Dog-gone, I've just got to have that!" he 
exclaimed — and his finish was in sight. So the 
muskmelon was added to his burden, with a water- 
melon under either arm, and the muskmelon caught 
between his hands in front. 

At the fence the Ford boys bade them fare- 
well, with some humorous doubts as to their reach- 
ing home with the load. Bat was a strapping 
youth of seventeen; the Boy scarcely ten. Home 
lay a mile and a half straight through the woods, 
with the big branch and heads of two smaller 
streams intervening. Before they had gone a 



26o Saturday Night Sketches 

score of yards, the Boy, perspiring and stagger- 
ing beneath his burden, which had become as lead, 
had his doubts. Granny had always said Bat's 
eyes were "bigger than his belly." 

It was not far to the big branch, and as soon 
as the shelter of the first gall-berry bushes was 
reached, Bat's genius began to shed light. "Jest 
let me show you," he said, when the Boy caught 
up with him, where he had carefully deposited his 
burden on the grass; "how I'm agoin' to fix 
things." 

As the Boy watched. Bat first pulled off his 
shoes and took out the buckskin strings; then he 
removed his pants, transferred the contents of the 
pockets to his coat, and tied the bottoms of the 
legs with his shoe-strings. Into each leg he put 
a watermelon, slung them across his shoulder, 
took up the muskmelon in his free hand and re- 
sumed his march in triumph. The Boy was agape 
with admiration at such resourcefulness and would 
have followed the example, but the legs of his 
pants would not take even a small watermelon — 
besides, he had no shoes. 

If the Boy had been given time for criticism, 
there would have been something humorous in 
Bat's appearance as he marched off, but he was 
too busy with his own problem. Cloth was not 
wasted in surplus undergarments in those days, 
so when Bat pulled off his pants, nothing was left 



Three Watermelons an Unhandy Turn 261 

but the skin. In the general scheme of economy, 
shirts were not made longer than absolutely nec- 
essary, and the bottom of Bat's reached little be- 
low the tail of the small gray jeans coat. This 
coat was little more than a round-cut jacket. It 
was always put on under protest and worn relig- 
iously, under any and all conditions. The spec- 
tacle Bat presented as he marched triumphantly 
ahead, would have made the angels weep — had 
they been looking. But the Boy had too many 
troubles of his own to notice, and as the way home 
was through the trackless woods, what difference 
did it make? 

Did you ever tote a watermelon? It is about 
the meanest, most slippery burden man ever bore ; 
one that reaches out into the atmosphere and gar- 
ners in moisture to add to its weight with every 
step. A ten-pounder on your shoulder will weigh 
fifty at the end of half a mile — and the two had 
three times that distance to go. 

The Boy staggered, sweated, grunted, and fin- 
ally at the point of exhaustion lost all taste or 
further desire for watermelon. He would not 
acknowledge defeat, but he was at the end of his 
row. Passing over a projecting pine root, he let 
one of the melons fall. 

"Oh, Bat I" he called to the one ahead; "I've 
dropped one and busted it." 

Berating his carelessness. Bat came back, and 



262 Saturday Night Sketches 

the two sat down to eat, that nothing might be 
wasted. But the joy had gone out of things for 
the Boy, and a piece of heart almost choked him; 
he had no heart for it. 

Wearily, the journey was resumed. As all 
things pass, the big branch had been crossed, the 
spring branch surrounded, and now as they rose 
the hill after a long climb, home was in sight, 
although still half a mile away, a bottom and two 
hillsides between. The Boy was finding little re- 
lief from the dropped melon, for one was so hard 
to manage, and all the weight was on a fellow's 
stomach. 

Bat was tired, so he was glad of an excuse to 
wait for the Boy, who had fallen many rods to 
the rear. He slid his twin burden down by a 
young pine, set the muskmelon on top of it, and 
while calling to the Boy to "Hurry up ! you're 
slower than the seven-year eatch," he stood carv- 
ing his girl's initials in the bark of the pine with 
his Barlow. 

What Bat didn't know was that when he slid 
his burden against the pine, he demolished a small 
nest of wasps. Caught under the pants and mel- 
ons, the daddy wasp had some trouble in extricat- 
ing himself, but this he did after a while, and 
when he came out he was afire with indignation 
at the family outrage and desecrated home. Bat 
was then industriously putting a flourish to the 



Three Watermelons an Unhandy Turn 263 

"P" that represented to him all feminine loveli- 
ness. 

Of course, clad as Bat was, there was only one 
place for a wasp to strike, and there he struck, 
with a "swap!" the Boy plainly heard, fifty feet 
away. 

"Ge-e-e-e-m-i-n-e-t-t-y!" Bat yelled, jumping 
three feet straight up, his knife as he came down 
raking a shower of bark from the pine. He 
clapped both hands to the place hit, and in doing 
so came near cutting off a slice of ham with the 
open Barlow. When he hit the ground he hit it 
running, and the Boy, putting down his water- 
melon, only overtook him after he had reached 
the flat and was sitting down in some cool mud. 

"Geeminetty! Dog-gone! Dad-blame! Dog- 
bite a dead nigger!" Bat was saying over to him- 
self as the Boy came up. 

After awhile, as cooling relief came, he began 
to devise ways and means. 

"Tell you what you do, John," he said. "I 
jest gotter have them pants. You take a pine- 
top, and go back; you can beat down them wasps 
jest easy enough, and then drag the pants and 
melons away a little piece and I'll come and git 
'em." 

"I don' wanter," the Boy said: "you do it — 
you're the biggest." 

"I would in a minute," was the reply; "but I 



264 Saturday Night Sketches 

ain't got a bit uv protection in the world." 

There was no gainsaying this. The personal 
influence of the big boy over the smaller is great 
and by sheer force of it, the Boy, armed with a 
top cut from a sapling, cautiously approached the 
scene of the late hot encounter. 

No wasp was in sight. The Boy reconnoitered, 
and seeing none, thought they had gone. He put 
down the pine bough and cautiously pulled at onf 
leg of the pants. Then something hit his jaw like 
the kick of a mule with a red-hot shoe. A quick 
slap killed the wasp, but by the time the Boy re- 
joined the waiting Bat, his face was swollen as if 
he had an ulcerated tooth. Neither would go 
back; Bat would not and the Boy had enough. 

"Tell yer what we'll do," said the resourceful 
Bat; "we'll go to the house and get me a pair of 
Fell's pants, and then I'll come back and just ever- 
lastingly flail the living devil out of them dad- 
blamed, dog-fetched, heretics." In which ambi- 
tion the Boy heartily joined, and homeward they 
hurried. Fell was the Boy's older brother, off 
visiting for the day, and about Bat's age. 

Climbing the rail fence back of the lot, and 
cautiously rounding the pomegranate bush by the 
smokehouse, they heard voices. Granny and 
Aunt Ruth had come ov^er to pay Mother a visit, 
and they were talking at a 2 :40 gait. Worse than 
that, they were sitting between the open doors of 



Three JVatermelons an Unhandy Turn 265 

the house, where they could see everything com- 
ing near it. Bat stepped back behind the smoke- 
house, to rearrange his plans. 

"I'll slip up inter the fodder-loft," he said, 
"while you run in the house and git me the pants." 
As the Boy followed orders Bat snooped along 
the fence to the lot. Towse, the family dog, met 
him and insisted on licking him where licking 
r/as not wanted. "Go back!" Bat whispered, not 
daring to kick lest the dog howl. But in climbing 
back' over the fodder, Bat disturbed a hen which 
had stolen a nest and was setting. Out she flew, 
down into the lot, with a great squalling and cack- 
ling, which caused every fowl on the place to join 
in the alarm. 

Despite the rattle of their talk, this soon at- 
tracted the attention of those in the house. 

'•^Wonder what in the world is the matter with 
the chickens?" one inquired, answering her own 
question with, "I bet it's a hawk." For hawks 
were the bane of the housewife who loved her 
chickens in those days. 

More with the idea of frightening off the ma- 
rauder than with the expectation of doing any 
execution. Aunt Ruth took down the single-bar- 
reled, muzzle-loading shotgun from the rack of 
deer antlers, and followed by her mother and sis- 
ter, ran out, passing unnoticed by the Boy, intent 
on securing the pants. 



266 Saturday Night Sketches 

The horizon was scanned in vain; no hawk was 
in sight. "Something certainly gave those chick- 
ens a scare," Aunt Ruth said, and just at that time 
Towse, sure that a rat hunt was on now, began to 
bark, and circle around the foot of the ladder. 

"Lordy, it's somebody up in the fodder-loft," 
she exclaimed, "and I bet it's a convict." Only 
five miles away, a force of half a thousand con- 
victs was grading a railroad. Escapes were fre- 
quent, and a source of terror to women of that 
section, left much alone, at home. 

The suggestion was heart-stilling, but Aunt 
Ruth was plucky. If trouble was coming, she 
would seize the advantage. Cocking the gun and 
walking up to the foot of the ladder, she called: 

"We know you're there, so you just as well 
come down. Come right out, now; or I'll shoot 
up into the loft." 

Bat had not heard the first talk, because of the 
din Towse and the chickens were raising, but he 
heard the last. Of course, he ought to have told 
them who he was, and what was the matter, but 
not everybody can think of the right thing at the 
right time. A voice he was accustomed to obey 
commanded him to "come down," and he came. 

There is only one way to come down a ladder, 
and that was the way he came. It was the very 
worst way possible for him, at that time. 

The three women, gazing upward did not see 



Three Watermelons an Unhandy Turn 267 

all of him as he came through the trap door of 
the loft, but they saw enough. With screams that 
could have been heard to the county site, they 
fled to the house, covering their heads with their 
aprons. The gun, dropped in the excitement, was 
discharged, the load of a thimbleful of birdshot 
narrowly missing Bat as it buried itself in the fod- 
der. Towse nearly threw a fit. As the racket was 
at its height, the Boy ran up with the pants. 

Down came Bat and seized the articles like a 
drowning man grabbing a life-belt. "What in the 
nation's the matter with them wimmen folks?" he 
asked. But the Boy had been too intent on fol- 
lowing instructions to be able to answer. 

Had another gun been at hand, the two boys 
would have been in danger as they went to the 
house to explain things. It took hard and fast 
talking to save both a licking, when at last the 
truth was comprehended. But a miss was good 
as a mile, and the thought of the melons to be 
retrieved helped somewhat. 

Yes; they went back for the melons, and the 
other pants. But a bunch of hungry hogs was 
ahead of them, and all that was left was a mussed 
up spot on the grass. 

"I hope the wasps got eat," Bat said. 

That's why I'm here to tell you that three 
melons make an unhandy turn. 



A HOUSE-RAISING AND HOME 
BUILDING 

"There was an old man and he wasn't very rich; 
When he died, he didn't leave much — 
But a great, big hat, with a little, bit o' brim, 
All bound round with a woolen string." 

Out of sheer excess of spirits the song was sung, 
not for rhyme or reason, but because it was spring- 
time, and life was in its youth. Four young and 
lusty men had lifted the pine log, and they sung as 
they bore it on their shoulders to the rapidly form- 
ing pen and laid it in place, the notched ends 
snugly fitted over its predecessor. 

John, the son of Farmer Jim, was soon to wed 
Sally, the daughter of Farmer Joe, and this house- 
raising was part of his home-building. A tract 
of land in the unbroken pine forest had been 
deeded to John by his father^ — land was cheap and 
plentiful then. All the fall, after crop time, and 
all through the winter John had labored, some- 
times with the help of a relative or neighbor, but 
never alone, for with him were visions of what 
the springtime would bring. 

268 



A House-Raising and Home Building 269 

From the slender and stately pines, careful se- 
lections were made. The logs must not be over 
six inches in diameter, straight and without blem- 
ish. Selections made, they were felled, cut, and 
notched at both ends. Enough secured, with the 
ox-wagon or cart they were hauled to the site 
cleared for the home, and there with a drawing 
knife, the bark was removed. From dead pines, 
hardened to lightwood, the foundation blocks 
were sawed. From the hearts of large pines the 
sills were hewn with a broadaxe; from smaller 
pines the "plates" or cap-logs were hewn, and 
from saplings the rafters were cut. 

When he had done all one man could do for 
the time, John sent out "S. O. S." calls, and to his 
"house-raising" they came. Like all occasions 
when many were gathered to work, the affair was 
made a festival also. The festive preparations 
were made at John's home, but the work came 
first. 

Two older men experienced in such work took 
charge of the young men, divided into squads. 
First, the pine blocks were set and on these the 
sills were placed, ahgned and leveled. Then the 
two largest short logs were brought and placed 
across the ends of the sills, then two long ones, 
then two short ones, until the house, in the shape 
of a pen, began to rise. If John was unusually 
ambitious, or wealthy, and essayed a "double- 



270 Saturday Night Sketches 

pen," there were two sets of "pens" going up, 
connected by full-length sills and plates, later to 
have one roof and a common floor, forming a 
long house with two large rooms of logs, a wide, 
cool hallway between, and perhaps as the family 
grew, with shed-rooms on the sides. But the 
"double-pens" were the exceptions. 

It was easy enough while the logs could be 
placed from the ground, but as the pens arose, it 
was necessary for men to climb the corners with 
the end of the log, and when It was up, for the 
other end to be raised by the same laborious pro- 
cess. It required muscle and some skill, but they 
made light of the task. Often the turpentine 
which had oozed out on the fresh-peeled surface 
had not thorqughly dried, and this stuck to hands, 
clothing and neck, when the log was shouldered. 
But they were not carpet-knights and were not 
dressed for a pink tea ; they were used to rough 
work, and expected It. The shirker only was de- 
spised. 

Hardest of all was raising the heavy "plates" 
or hewn cap-pieces, running the length of the house 
and extending out over each end. Heavier than 
the logs, to be carried highest of all, placing them 
in position was hard work and a little dangerous, 
as the slip of a foot climbing the slick logs meant 
trouble for all handling the piece of timber. 

While they were the busiest, across the Inter- 



A House-Raising and Home Building 271 

vening vales, from the home of John's parents 
nearly a mile away, came the mellow notes of 
the dinner-horn. They were welcome. 

The walk was a mere breathing-spell, and when 
the ancestral home was reached, a bevy of rosy- 
cheeked, laughing, Wiregrass girls greeted them. 
Mrs. Jim had pieced two quilt-tops during the 
winter evenings, and to quilt these while the house 
was being raised the women-folks had been in- 
vited. 

While the men were "washing-up" at the water- 
shelf, where the big tin basin, cedar bucket and 
long-handled gourd were fixtures and plenty of 
home-made lye soap made the removal of the pine 
gum easy, there was much giggling, joking and 
flirting. At the table, loaded with good things, 
with mammoth chicken-pies, big pound-cakes and, 
dark-green potato custards, the lords of creation 
ate alone, woman waiting, as she had been trained 
from the beginning of time, until her master had 
feasted. 

After dinner there was a short period of rec- 
reation — flirting, quoit-pitching, mayhap wrestling 
or jumping, as inclination led, and then back to 
work. Before night, John's house was "raised." 
On either side, through the logs, doors had been 
sawed; in one end a window, beside the opening 
for a fire-place. From the "plates" rafters had 
been raised to the shape of inverted V's, and the 



272 Saturday Night Sketches 

ends nailed; the job for the day was done. After- 
wards, from the distant saw-mill (operated by 
water-power) John hauled lumber for the doors 
and the floors; with boards or shingles riven or 
drawn by hand he covered It, as he drove the nails 
dreaming the dreams of youth. But no matter 
how great his comparative wealth, all that money 
paid for In the building of that home was the lum- 
ber and the nails. 

In time, after the wedding and the feasting, 
John brought his bride here, to make a home for 
him while he wrenched from the forest a farm 
on which to make a living for both, and for the 
children to come. At that wedding was no ava- 
lanche of so-called "presents," articles given by 
those who could ill afford, to those to whom they 
were of no use — it was not the custom then. But 
Sally's mother gave her a feather-bed and pillows 
stocked from the family herd of geese; John's 
mother added to Sally's store of quilts and sheets; 
from his ancestors had come down to John a 
cord-bedstead of fearful and wonderful construc- 
tion and great comfort; from the one-legged chair- 
maker across the creek John bought two chairs 
of stout hickory with cowhide bottoms, good for 
three generations at least; from the lumber John 
constructed a table, and a trip to the distant store 
had brought plates, cups and saucers, knives, forks 
and spoons ; a coffee-pot, frying-pan, and spider of 



A House-Raising and Home Building 273 

cast-iron. These simple articles completed their 
house-keeping equipment. No cook-stoves to 
bring worry or indigestion then. 

There was no wedding trip, except from her 
home to his ; no large sums of money spent, which 
neither could afford; no bridal suites, Pullman 
drawing-rooms; no porters nor waiters to tip; but 
all the essentials of happiness were theirs. For it 
is within us, not in our surroundings, that happi-. 
ness lies. They had youth, they had love; they 
had their lives before them. What more could 
wealth, or power, or ambition bring? What they 
had was beyond price. 

For a season, mayhap for life, over that log 
cabin the Spirit of Happiness hovered. Cheru- 
bim looked down and smiled, for Heaven was 
there. The Morning Sun kissed them a greeting; 
Old Sol at midday laughed to see Love's dwelling- 
place, and the Evening Sun smiled them good- 
night. The Spirit of the Morning awoke them 
with the music of the quickening day and the 
Spirit of Night sung them a lullaby as Luna, swing- 
ing high in the starry heavens, bathed in soft and 
mellow light this home in its peace as sacred as 
a shrine. Even the whippoorwill called in a softer 
note, the nightingale tuned his flute to a love-song, 
and the lark sounded as the gentle dove's coo as 
he called to them that morn was here. 

Around this home in time spread broad acres, 



274 Saturday Night Sketches 

from it came forth men and women to build a 
state ; within its sacred walls were inculcated the 
principles of right living, of right thinking, of 
wholesome religion and of sterling honesty and 
solid integrity that founded a citizenship of which 
the world holds no superior. For these people 
were the founders of the South Georgia of to-day. 
But we run ahead. We had just finished the 
house-raising, and back to the home of John's 
parents we go with the laborers, toilers no longer, 
weariness forgotten, they are merry-makers now. 
Here supper awaits, and perhaps a merry bevy of 
girls toss John, the groom-to-be, in one of the 
finished quilts. And after the supper, there is the 
fiddler, the man who beats the straws, and the 
tapping feet of both; the couples on the floor, 
and we leave them to the rhythmic cotillon calls 
as the violin merrily sounds : 

''Oh, Dooly county girls, can't you come out to- 
night? 
Can't you come out to-night — can't you come 
out to-nightf 
Oh, Dooly county girls, can't you come out to- 
night? 
And dance 'till in the morning!" 



A NEST OF SQUIRRELS 

Bud called to the Boy to bring the axe. 

The call came from the bottom down the 
branch, a few hundred yards from the house. He 
could be seen between the intervals of the pines, 
far down the wiregrass covered, sloping hillside, 
motioning for haste. The Boy hurried to the 
woodpile, picked up the axe, dull, and with splint- 
ered handle, and ran to him. 

Bud had gone out at the noon hour, while the 
horse was eating, to kill a squirrel or so; it was 
a habit of his. Fox squirrels, almost extinct in 
this section now, were plentiful then. Bud was 
a good shot, and with his muzzle-loader rarely 
failed to bring in two or more. The squirrels 
were readily found, needing no dog to trail them, 
for they played from pine to pine and often fed 
on the ground on the "mass" dropping from the 
opening pine-burs. 

Those were days when game was plentiful. It 
was no trouble to kill all the fox squirrels wanted 
— big, fat fellows, as large as four of the swamp 
cat-squirrels of to-day; partridges were so easy 
that ammunition was not wasted on them unless 

275 



276 Saturday Night Sketches 

they were caught huddled in coveys; deer roamed 
the hillsides and often came within sight of the 
house in which Bud and the Boy lived, and which 
was surrounded by the pine forest. Across the 
branch, in the "new-ground" field, deer jumped 
the rail fence and did a great deal of damage to 
the fall crop of field peas. In this they were ably 
assisted by the wild turkeys, which went in droves 
of twenty to forty. This country knew no dearth 
of fresh meat then. 

Bud was dancing excitedly from one foot to the 
other when the Boy came up. "I saw five squir- 
rels go into that hollow tree," he asserted. The 
hollow was away up, but could be easily seen 
among the big limbs near the top. "I know there 
is a nest there, and the tree is sure hollow to the 
bottom. It can be cut down easy, and I've a good 
notion to do it." 

Around the tree he circled, sounding it with 
the axe. It didn't sound very hollow, but he was 
anxious to cut it, and wish lent aid to the ear. 
It was a whopping big tree, all right, about three 
feet through, but that wouldn't count for much 
if there was a big hollow. Certainly, it must be 
nearly all hollow far up, else how could five or 
more squirrels find comfortable lodging therein? 

Deciding that he would cut In a little way and 
see If the hollow was there, a small chip was 
taken, and cut out. No hollow. "Must be right 



A Nest of Squirrels 277 

close," Bud said, and laid off another "kerf." 
Cut that down, and still no hollow. "Can't miss 
it this time," he said, and another "kerf" was 
cut. Still no hollow. The tree was so near half 
cut now, Bud decided the hollow must be on the 
other side, and he took a deep "kerf" this time, 
one that would carry him half way. The tree 
was as solid as heart lightwood could make it. 
Having cut it half down, Bud decided he would 
"let the hide go with the tallow," so to speak, 
and rather than lose the work he had done, cut 
the other half. This he did, taking frequent stops 
to rest, and rub his blistering hands, but with 
visions of roast squirrel to spur him on. 

All this time the Boy was stationed to one side 
to watch the top of the tree and see that none 
of the squirrels ran out and jumped to the limbs of 
other trees, as they frequently did, especially when 
the tree was nearly ready to fall; but no squirrel 
came into sight. 

At last, with many preliminary cracks, the great 
pine inclined, slowly at first, then more rapidly, 
brushing aside limbs and smaller trees, and at last 
down to the earth it came with a thundering shock. 

Up Bud and the Boy ran, he with gun ready 
cocked, the Boy with the axe, watching for the 
squirrels to jump — but nary a jump. 

The tree rebounded, a cloud of dust and rotten 
wood flying from the splintered top. Still no 



278 Saturday Night Sketches 

squirrel. The boys searched among the debris; 
at last there was the crushed, mutilated and now 
worthless carcass of one poor squirrel, caught and 
killed in the hollow as the tree fell. 

The sun was almost setting; the afternoon work 
was lost. Sadder, tired, but wiser, the boys mean- 
dered home. To this day the Boy does not know 
where the other four squirrels went to. Did Bud 
see the same one five times? 



AN OLD TIME CIRCUS DAY 

"Booml-ta-rara-Boom-de-ay! 
Boom!-ta-rara-Boom!" 

The motley crowd lining the sidewalks craned 
necks ; youngsters ventured a few steps out to look 
down the street. Eureka! they were coming! 

With roll of drum and blare of horn, the band 
led. Mounted high on a chariot of crimson, silver 
and gold (drawn by eight prancing horses of 
glistening white, feathery plumes waving in the 
sunshine), clad in uniforms princely regal, the 
musicians with inspiring strains opened a day 
filled with wonderful things. 

For six weeks, since first the marvelous posters 
had appeared, magnifying the wonders of the ani- 
mal kingdom and feats of derring-do, the Boy 
had counted the days — even the hours, and waited 
with the impatience of childhood. Just a few days 
before the date emblazoned in gilded letters on 
his mind, one of the circus' advertising men, trav- 
eling through the country in a buggy on last call 
work, spent the night at the family homestead and 
generously volunteered to carry the Boy to the 

279 



28o Saturday Night Sketches 

circus city, where he could await the day of days 
with a relative. 

On the way, the Boy came near having one il- 
lusion dispelled. For this fast-talking representa- 
tive of the riches of the world was out of money; 
naively confessing that he did not have the where- 
with to pay the bridge toll at the river at the city's 
gates. The Boy thought how this same man had, 
with princely mien, insisted that morning on his 
father's acceptance of a dollar bill for his night's 
lodging, a thing unheard of then. And on the 
father's persistent refusal he had thrust the bill 
into the Boy's hand and would not be gainsaid. 
And the Boy wondered ; but the tender of the same 
bill now as a loan was refused. 

"I'll get the money," the man said; and he did. 
Underneath the buggy seat were a lot of left-over 
circus posters. It was fall time and the negroes 
had money. Soon the plantations along the river 
bottoms were at hand, and on either side of the 
road negro cabins. It only took a brief display 
of the gaudy-colored lithographs and the offer of 
them at five and ten cents each to bring eager pur- 
chasers, and when two stops had been made the 
bridge fare and the price of a night's lodging was 
in the treasure chest. 

The days passed, as days must, and Circus Day 
was here. With the first beam of morning light, 
the Boy and his cousins were up, and down by the 



An Old Time Circus Day 281 

railroad yards, where the circus was unloading. 
They watched the dirt thrown out for the ring, 
the driving of the stakes and the hoisting of the 
big tent — all by labor of man and horse, for there 
were none of the devices of the present day. Now, 
all was ready and the parade was passing. 

After the band, John Robinson himself, in 
beaver hat and jim-swinger coat, drove in state; 
there followed beautiful ladies in dazzling cos- 
tumes; handsome men in blue and scarlet; then the 
massive elephants, the awkward camels, the long- 
necked giraffes; cage after cage, gilded and fan- 
tastic, with closed doors telling of the fearful man- 
eaters that could not be trusted even to iron bars 
alone. An occasional roar at the proper time 
blanched cheeks and sent hearts pounding. And 
then, of crowning wonder, the steam piano ! Call 
it caUiope if you will, but piano it was, and when 
steam could be kept up (which was at rare inter- 
vals) the ears were smitten, as by a board, with 
"The Last Rose of Summer." 

Into the big tent the procession passed, and we 
were left outside to walk the lane of wonders and 
view the dread posters before the side-shows. The 
depths of mythology; the scope of natural history, 
the store of nature's freaks and monstrosities, had 
been plumbed to gather the aggregation that now 
tempted from the pocket the precious dime — pre- 
cious because it could buy so much. But the Boy's 



282 Saturday Night Sketches 

dimes were few and soon he passed, perforce with 
the surging crowd of white and black into the big 
tent some time before the performance began. 

Until to-day he has never understood what the 
reserved seat at a circus was for. Sufficient for 
him was the narrow plank, high up near the can- 
vas roof, where like a king in state he sat; and 
the marvelous things of earth passed before him. 

Oh, that excruciatingly funny clown ! With his 
painted face that sent a nearby babe into hyster- 
ics; his side-splitting jokes; his wonderful faculty 
of doing the right thing at the right time. His 
witticisms treasured and carried home, to furnish 
anecdotes for a year to come. 

There was only one ring and only one clown 
then, but, as Mercutio remarked, they were suf- 
ficient. And to boyhood, the tinsel was all silver 
and gold; the glass, jewels of first water; the paint 
and powder, rare work of nature. Never breathed 
such beautiful things as those lady horseback rid- 
ers (one all in silver, another in crimson and 
gold). Surely, she with the long riding habit, 
glistening with each step of her prancing horse, 
was Queen Titania of Fairyland, but come for a 
brief hour to feast the mortal eye. For Youth 
takes what it sees and believes; disillusion comes 
only with experience. 

The trapeze performers, the high jumpers, 
the somersaulters, as each came, the Boy's jaw 




AT THE CIRCUS 



An Old Time Circus Day 283 

dropped, and eyes stuck out in wonderment. Pass- 
ing along the seats now were the peanut venders, 
and of a sudden appetite conquered curiosity. 
Followed the boys with glasses of lemonade, in 
pink and blue — and thirst succeeded appetite. Not 
even did disillusionment come when one of the 
peddlers of liquid was seen underneath the seats 
filling his empty glasses from parts of those re- 
maining, and a few minutes later a peanut seller 
replenishing his stock by similar methods. 

At last it was over. No use to say concert, for 
nothing could eclipse what had been seen, and 
tired but not surfeited with great things the home- 
ward way was wended, what had been witnessed 
still furnishing ample topics for progressive con- 
versation. 

Perhaps least of all things has the circus 
changed in forty years. There is more to it now; 
things have come and gone since the days of John 
Robinson; but the essential features remain the 
same. The circus has not changed because human 
nature is the same, for after all the circus is a 
part of man. 

If there were no youth, or old age with the 
heart of youth, there would be no circus; for with 
youth and its illusions the circus is a part. With 
the coming of age and the iconoclastic knowledge 
that age brings, happy is he who can still retain 
that part of the heart of youth and its imagina- 
tions that make the circus still a possible thing! 



GOING TO MILL WITH BUD 

"The miller, the miller, he lives in the mill; 
The stones turn 'round with a free good will; 
One hand on the hopper, the other on the sack; 
You carry him corn — you get your meal back." 

The Youth and the Boy, fourteen and six years, 
were eating breakfast by candle-light, the Mother 
hovering near, as mothers ever do. It was a day 
long looked forward to, when the Youth was to 
make the trip of twelve miles in an ox-wagon to 
carry the first corn of the season to mill. By 
begging, sniffing, and pouting, the Boy had bull- 
dozed or persuaded a reluctant consent to his mak- 
ing the trip, and scarcely had he slept the night 
before. 

For nearly a week, preparations had been mak- 
ing. The field had been searched for the ripest 
ears, and these pulled and carried to the house in 
a cotton-basket. After supper they had been 
shucked and the corn shelled by hand. During 
the day the shelled corn had been dried in the 
sun on sheets spread on the sloping roof of the 
chicken-house, on the meat-bench and the frame 

284 



Going to Mill with Bud 285 

on which the beds were sunned. It was by keep- 
ing the chickens away from the drying corn that 
the Boy had in part earned the right to make the 
trip. 

The morning star was still bright in the east 
when the yoke was laid across the necks of the 
oxen, they were backed across the wagon-tongue, 
the end of the tongue run through the ring from 
the yoke and a stout iron pin dropped to hold it 
in place. The Youth laid the lines back between 
the projecting ends of the neck-bows, climbed into 
the wagon and announced ready. With a final 
admonition from the watching parents to be care- 
ful (useless as always), they were off. 

The distance was short for the auto of to-day, 
but it was an all-day trip for the ox-team of forty 
years ago. And oxen were handy things on the 
farm where there was only one horse and that one 
needed in the field. 

There were two sacks of corn containing a 
bushel each, and a small sack containing a peck 
to be chopped into hominy — grits we say now. 
These sacks, covered with a quilt, formed seats 
for the Youth and Boy. Beginning a journey Is 
like beginning life — all the fun is in the start. 
The morn was still cool and the oxen stepped off 
lively. Anticipation lent zest to the trip and 
spirits ran high. It was not so, later in the day. 
The sun blazed in a cloudless sky; the oxen — at 



286 Saturday Night Sketches 

best only good for two miles an hour — lagged and 
panted and the Boy with the impatience of child- 
hood, asked every few minutes "how much far- 
ther?" 

Five miles out, the first accident came. The 
Youth had improvised a pipe by cutting off the 
tip-end of a gourd-neck and fixing therein a stem 
cut from a reed from the bushes of the first stream 
crossed. This pipe had been filled with a compo- 
sition of "rabbit-tobacco" and deer-tongue, dried 
and rolled in the palms until it crumbled. While 
the Boy watched with envious and admiring eyes, 
the Youth was sending up clouds of smoke, when 
a metallic clatter off to one side of the road caused 
both to turn their heads in time to see the tire 
from a rear wheel roll off down the hillside, strike 
a pine and tumble on the ground. 

Dismay followed contentment. The wagon had 
been standing under the shed for a long time, but 
the night before the tires had been "shrunken" by 
pouring on the wheels many buckets of water. 
On the way, there had been warning sounds of 
grating sand between tires and felloes, but the 
boys had not noticed. 

The tire was brought up and they vainly tried 
to drive it back on the wheel. Then the oxen 
were led to shade near by, and after much effort 
the axle was propped up with two pine limbs, and 
the wheel removed. Down on the ground, both 



Going to Mill with Bud 287 

boys tried, with mallets of lightwood-knots, to 
beat that tire on. But, contrary to cussedness, 
it wouldn't go. Where before it was a loose fit 
for a Mother Hubbard, now it would not even 
serve as a tailor-made. It dropped off without 
help, but to save their lives, the boys could not, 
sweat and labor as they might, beat it back on. 
If it slipped over the felloe at one place, it lacked 
a quarter of an inch going to the edge in another. 
Five miles from home, and broken down! De- 
spair settled on the Boy's soul, but the brother 
was of sterner stuff. Off to a sandy place in the 
road the tire was carried, and propped off the 
earth with four pine-knots. Then, over it, all 
around the circle, pine bark and pinestraw were 
piled, and these set on fire. While the heat was 
expanding the metal, the wheel was brought up, 
and bolstered with knots put under the rims. 
Then, when the metal was showing red in places, 
the tire was lifted on two green forked sticks cut 
for the purpose, and placed over the rim. A few 
blows with the knots in the right places and, 
presto ! The tire was on ! But again disaster 
threatened! The pine wood of the felloes was 
set blazing by the hot tire, and the whole wheel 
bid fair to soon be in ashes. Again the resource- 
ful Youth was ready: Both boys ran to the stream 
close by, dipped water in their hats and ran with 
it to the blazing wheel. Soon the fire was out; 



288 Saturday Night Sketches 

more water cooled the tire, the wheel was replaced, 
and the journey resumed, at the price of two Sun- 
day hats. But no more that day did the two for- 
get the tires, and often the sound of hammering 
arose as they pounded refractory felloes into place 
with knots, or wedged them tight with strips of 
pine. 

All journeys end after a while, if you keep go- 
ing; so did this one. Sometimes the Youth walked 
beside the wagon; sometimes the Boy ventured, 
and both were tired of walking and riding when 
at last the broad, shimmering millpond and the 
dusty house on the dam were sighted. 

The road to the millhouse led along the dam. 
The team drank at a stream only half a mile back, 
but as it approached the dam the oxen had their 
panting tongues hanging out, under the noon-tide 
sun. The ox is a creature of impulse. When he 
decides to go, he stands not on the order of the 
going. When this pair saw the cool water of the 
mill-pond, they went for it, like a doubtful voter 
for a quart. Down the dam and into the water 
they went, the Youth frantically tugging at the 
lines, and the Boy yelling "whoa! whoal" as he 
sought safety by running to the rear end of the 
wagon and jumping off. The oxen never stopped 
until the water was up to their necks, and then 
the wagon behind pushed them in a little further. 
Fortunately, some men at the mill heard the noise 



Going to Mill with Bud 289 

and ran, backing out the wagon and team before 
any serious damage was done. 

Then up to the mill-house, the corn unloaded, 
and the wait for their turn, as others were ahead. 
Meanwhile, the Boy inspected the wonder of the 
dam and pond and house, the whirhng millwheel, 
the rushing water, the busy and dusty miller, as 
only curious boyhood can look, wonder, and learn. 
At last their turn came, and he watched the miller 
as the corn was measured, poured into the hopper, 
and the toll taken out. Then the mystery of see- 
ing the corn as it dropped from the hopper into 
the whirling rocks and emerged, warm and sweetly 
odorous meal. 

The oxen had eaten and rested before the boys 
were ready for the return journey. It was cool 
afternoon when once their heads were turned 
homeward, and they stepped off with an altogether 
different gait to the outward journey. Walking 
until tired; riding until tired, the return was with- 
out incident until the shades of night coming, the 
Boy curled upon one of the bags of meal and 
went to sleep. The Youth blinked a while and 
then followed suit, the oxen keeping to the road 
with steps growing swifter as home was neared. 
The boys did not even awake when the dread bot- 
tom was crossed where for many years stood a 
gallows on which a murderer had paid the death 
penalty, a place shunned and dreaded by both 



290 Saturday Night Sketches 

after nightfall. At last, "Wake up ; we're home !" 
brought to the sleeping Boy more joy than the 
start on the journey had given. 

So much for the days that are gone. Now we 
who eat corn meal, have it carried home in a paper 
sack. Often it is coarse, or tasteless. It was ob- 
tained then only at the cost of much labor but as 
the bread of toil It was doubly sweet, and since 
that long day the Boy never looks on corn bread 
except with a wholesome respect. 



A LOG-ROLLIN', QUILTIN', AND FROLIC 

"/ stood upon the mountain 
And gave my horn a blow. 
I saw my sweetheart at the door. 
'Yonder comes my beau.' " 

Instead of a mountain he stood on the top of 
one of the pine-clad hills of the gentle undulations 
of South Georgia — but it was the nearest to a 
mountain that he knew. Instead of a horn, he 
used nature's bugle. In the sheer exuberance of 
youth, he straightened his tall figure, swelled his 
chest and from his leathery lungs came the cow 
halloo : 

"Yo-ho-o-e-e! Yo-ho-o-e-e 1" 

Across intervening vales, from hilltop to hill- 
top, the sound re-echoed until lost in the distance. 
He listened, breath suspended for the reply. It 
came after a while, almost like an echo of his 
own call. It was from his friend with the same 
destination. Half a mile farther on they met, the 
young man walking, his sister riding the family 
horse with side-saddle and the long skirt of those 
days. Two miles farther they reached the object 

291 



292 Saturday Night Sketches 

of their early morning trip. 

The log-rolling was essentially a pioneer insti- 
tution. During the past year in the "new ground" 
the winds had wrought havoc and there was much 
fallen timber. No effort was made to clear the 
timber from the land before bringing it into cul- 
tivation; the process was too laborious and expen- 
sive. With an axe the trees were "deadened" by 
being chopped in a double circle, thus cutting off 
sustenance from mother earth and soon they died; 
this dead timber falling easily before the hard 
winds of fall and winter, covered the land with 
logs and debris and had to be cleared before the 
spring plowing began. 

Preparing for the log-rolling was hard work. 
The logs must be cut into convenient lengths and 
for a week the housewife was busy cooking and 
getting ready. She herself during the long winter 
evenings had pieced together scraps of cloth of 
brilliant colors into various attractive patterns, 
these squares being sewed together to form the 
top for a bed-quilt. The bottom was of substan- 
tial homespun, white or colored, and between these 
a layer of cotton carded into "bats," about a foot 
long and four inches wide. The quilt in these 
three layers was carefully stitched to a wooden 
frame and this suspended to joists in the living- 
room which was probably the only room. 

Those people started early when they gave a 



A Log-Rollin' , Quiltin', and Frolic 293 

neighbor a day's work and the sun was not very 
high when the crowd was gathered. The men 
were divided into squads of nine each. The lead- 
er, possibly past middle-age, carried the "prize 
pole," or fulcrum, which was driven under the 
end of the logs, and a boy was handy with a block 
to scotch it. Bearing down on the end of this 
lever the log was raised and a heavy round hand- 
stick, of substantial black-gum or hickory, was 
thrust underneath the end. Then came the tug of 
war. Two of the stoutest men had the first stick 
and it was their duty to give the others "light." 
By main strength they raised the log until the 
second stick could be thrust under, followed in 
turn by the third and fourth, until the big piece 
of timber was carried, mid-thigh high, by eight 
men. 

Here there were many tests of strength and 
often laughing efforts to "pull down" an oppon- 
ent. South Georgia's sons were sturdy young men 
in those days and with anything like an even 
match, to pull down the other fellow's end of the 
stick was no pigmy's job. There was danger in 
it also, as many wrenched backs and occasional 
permanent injuries attested. As a rule, however, 
the partners to each stick knew each other well 
from previous experience and there was no effort 
to make the other fellow's task harder. The con- 
test came when the opposites were rivals in love 



294 Saturday Night Sketches 

or athletic feats, and then when the timber was 
green or water-sodden, there were times when the 
muscles were sorely tried. 

The logs were piled in heaps of six; three on 
the bottom; then two, and the cap log. In the 
spaces between, the lads who were always there 
had thrown armfuls of bark and limbs and the 
heaps were ready for firing. 

To the lads also fell the task of carrying the 
water buckets; these of cedar with clean, sweet- 
smeUing drinking gourds, and with the water al- 
ways went the "brown jug" — not so little this time. 
In those days nearly all of the older men drank, 
but few of the younger ones touched liquor. They 
drank, with a straight swig from the jug, either 
rye or corn and usually of the variety that cost 
$2 a gallon retail, including the revenue tax of 
one dollar. 

Everybody was hungry, and glad when the din- 
ner horn sounded. During the morning the 
women and girls had been busy around the quilt- 
ing frame, neatly stitching, in ever lengthening 
circles, the three layers together, swapping gos- 
sip and exchanging experiences until the narrowed 
framing showed half their task was done. Then, 
when the men came, around the water-shelf and 
piazza, what flirting there was! 

The dinner was of the times that knew no in- 
digestion. Substantial bacon, collards, corn bread, 



A Log-RoUin' , Quiltin', and Frolic 295 

boiled ham, pork, perhaps dried beef, and always 
chicken-pie and cakes and sweet potato custards. 
They call them pies now — they were custards then, 
sweet and yellow, or blue and black, according to 
the potatoes and sweetening, piled a foot high and 
cut down into squares. To top off the dinner with 
three or four custards weighing a pound or so 
each was no extra task for an able-bodied log- 
roller. 

After dinner, and back to work until the shades 
of night fell or the task was finished. By this 
time the quilt was completed, neatly folded, and 
laid away; the frames disappeared, a big fire 
blazed on the hearth, the furniture was removed 
(although there usually wasn't very much of it) 
and the chairs set back against the wall. Supper 
was soon over, the fiddle in tune, and the dancing 
began. 

What if some of them had walked five miles or 
more that morning and had carried the end of a 
hand-stick under heavy logs all day? Youth was 
never tired when there was a chance to dance, and 
having worked all day they danced all night. 



THE UNION SING 

"Babylon has fallen — has fallen — has fallen; 
Babylon has fallen, to rise no more.'* 

The logs from the lower front of the church 
had been removed to let the air in and the music 
out. And the song, from two hundred pairs of 
strong lungs, rolled in a volume of sound across 
vale and hill. In front the leader, tuning-fork in 
hand, beat time with full gesture to the music, the 
skirts of his alpaca coat snapping like pennants 
in the army of the muse. At one side, the organ- 
ist, with main strength and much perspiration, kept 
barely a jump behind the fork. 

It was just as the first song, backed by the pent- 
up enthusiasm of the year of waiting, rolled out, 
the Boy and the Girl drove up to the church door. 
Nimbly he jumped out and ran around to let down 
the buggy-top, that she might not stoop her pretty 
head to alight. Although she could have jumped a 
three-foot fence unaided, he handed her out, even 
as Raleigh might have assisted Elizabeth from her 
royal coach. The buggy was a borrowed one — 
also the horse, but little he recked, if but the day's 

296 



The Union Sing 297 

possession were his. For Youth has to-day — to- 
morrow belongs to Childhood, and Yesterday to 
old age. 

She went into the church to join her companions 
and class for a while, and he carried the horse and 
buggy around to the shade of a pine, where both 
were promptly forgotten — until the buggy was 
needed for a social hour or so. 

Not all the assemblage could get into the church 
— and not all wanted to get in. Old folks stood 
about in groups and discussed crops and told jokes, 
and all through the grounds, under the shade of 
the oaks and pines, in buggies or on the grass, sat 
many couples, perhaps not singers, to whom the 
sound of the other's voice was all the music either 
wanted. And this was well, for the church was 
full to the limit allowed by July weather, and as 
her class stood to sing, one boy saw two tiny riv- 
ulets of sweat trickle down the "lily white" cheek 
of his latest inamorata — and another "mash" was 
busted. 

On one side of the house, where the girls sat 
was the perfume of Hoyt's cologne, of cinnamon 
drops, and peppermint ad libitum, but the heat 
was already working sad havoc with the careful 
work of lily white and the powder puff. On the 
boys' side there was the heavy odor of hair oil, 
of bay rum and mint, and many coat pockets 
bulged with the treasured bulk of a roll of stick 



298 Saturday Night Sketches 

candy — or of cinnamon bark, provided against the 
time when, in the narrow buggy seat, it could be 
divided with the only one worth dividing with. 
From the tops of the upper pockets of the coats, 
in careful disarray, peeped the gaudy colors of 
silk (or cotton) handkerchiefs, while some of the 
bolder frankly wore them around the neck. 

At last there was surfeit of music, and the call 
to dinner was sounded. The church stood on an 
eminence, facing the "big road." In front was a 
wooded vale, and here beneath the trees, the pic- 
nic dinner, in bountiful profusion, was spread. 
Ye shades of LucuUus, lend us your memory; ye 
of Epicure your pen, while we attempt the task 
of telling of the good things of those days, when 
"store-bought truck" and indigestion were almost 
unknown. 

First there was the chicken, ever present and 
indispensable king of feast; fried, baked, stewed 
and pled. Of potato custards, the chief of the 
winter feasts, there was none, for we did not keep 
potatoes the year-round then; but the beef that 
had been the community blood offering; the pork 
its brother sacrifice; the huckleberry pie, the peach 
pie, the blackberry shortcake; the pound cake, that 
meant what It said; the jelly roll, the cookey, the 
apple puff, the "crab-lantern," and the many other 
and almost innumerable testimonials of the house- 
wife's skill; the preserves, the jellies, the pickles 



The Union Sing 299 

— all home products. The mouth waters, the 
mind wanders and perforce memory's lid must 
be dropped. 

And best of all, we carried to the feast the appe- 
tites and the digestion of youth — both alike with 
the things of those days only memories now. And 
She was there, to urge to eat more; She had 
cooked this, and her mother offered that, until it 
was well that the capacity was ample for all com- 
ers. 

In those days, salads were comparatively un- 
known. The fancy dishes of to-day would not 
long have stayed the appetites then, and but as 
chaff would have been considered the makeshifts 
of the city picnic basket now. 

After dinner, the hour of rest, the buggy, and 
small-talk. Then the contest for the banner; the 
optimism; the cruel disappointment; the private 
opinion of the ability of the judges freely ex- 
pressed. Then we sang, 

"God be with you, 'till we meet again." 

Then the long drive home along the three-path 
road, through the rustling wiregrass, beneath the 
murmuring pines, which seemed to stoop and 
whisper to each other in sympathy as the mare, 
the lines loose on her back, took her own time 
leisurely, as the couple "the world forgetting" 
forgot all else in the subject of the moment — a 



300 Saturday Night Sketches 

subject as old as Eve and as tireless as Divinity. 

Except for surroundings — the union songs in 
the Wiregrass Georgia of to-day are very much 
like those of thirty-five years ago. Perhaps like 
the ones of the olden time, the best part of them is 
the drive home in the dusk — but of that we know 
not now. 

With the memories of those days float back 
many hallowed recollections, and as they pass we 
hear again the leader, his tuning-fork and his 
call, as they burst into song: 

"Down at the cross, where my Saviour died; 
There to he cleansed from sin I cried; 
There to my heart was the blood applied; 
Glory to His name." 



SATURDAY NIGHT 

Forty years ago, and Saturday night. 

The work for the week is done, supper is over, 
and the family is grouped around the blazing fire 
of resinous pine. 

During the afternoon, the Boy has "knocked 
off" to walk the mile to the village postoffice and 
bring the weekly paper, arrived that morning by 
horseback carrier from the town twenty miles 
away. 

In the rocking-chair in the chimney corner the 
Father sits, where the firelight falls on the paper 
to best advantage. He reads aloud, thus all shar- 
ing alike in the treasured store. 

In front, the Mother with busy fingers, im- 
proves the time while listening to the news, for 
knitting neither interferes with hearing, comment 
nor conversation. 

At the other chimney corner the Boy lazily re- 
clines. His task is to keep the fire going, and as 
each stick of wood is the product of his own hard 
labor, none is wasted. 

The newspaper is a treasure chest of eight 
compartments, each filled with nuggets or jew- 

301 



302 Saturday Night Sketches 

els that come to light as the page is turned. There 
was the serial story of absorbing Interest; we 
could with difficulty wait for the week to pass 
to hear it slowly unfold plot and counterplot and 
breath-stifling event. Then the news of the week; 
not so much news as we have now, for there were 
no great news-gathering organizations and the 
telegraph was still one of the world's wonders, 
but a little politics, a few murders, very little sen- 
sation and no yellow journalism. Papers were 
better edited then, we think; gave more space and 
time to literary efforts, and little to wire news. 
Perhaps they were better; we do not know; cer- 
tainly they were then, as they are now, and will 
be to-morrow, mirrors reflecting the communities 
and the world in which they were published. 

How well is remembered the scent of the fresh 
Ink as the wrapper was torn off and the paper 
unfolded! Perhaps there the Boy got the taste 
for the newspaper in his blood, which later de- 
veloped into an incurable disease — or affliction, 
according to the viewpoint. 

From time to time the Reader paused, as some 
Item of more than usual Interest was read, and 
the family joined in discussing It. The family 
group broke up only when there was no more pa- 
per to read and the hour was so late that we were 
glad the next day was Sunday and early rising not 
compulsory. 



Saturday Night 303 

The days are gone, the pine is gone, there is 
no vestige left of the home that sheltered the 
three. The Mother's busy hands are folded and 
at rest; the eyes of the Reader grew dim and 
sightless, the voice now is only a memory; of the 
group the Boy alone is left and much that was 
with him then is forever gone. 

But green as the hillsides of the days of youth; 
sacred as the memories of the hallowed dead; 
treasured as jewels in the storehouse of life, is 
the recollection of the Saturday night of long 
ago; for to the eyes of the mind it is as close as 
yesterday. 

If you are near fifty, what did the Saturday 
night of forty years ago bring you? 



